


Cold Sweat

by for_autumn_i_am



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), Anal Sex, Attempt at Humor, Cursed Sea Captain Francis Crozier, Detective James Fitzjames, Dirty Talk, Eventual Smut, Feral Little, For the Approval of the Midnight Society I'm Submitting Spooky Lemon, M/M, Oral Sex, Rimming, Rough Sex, Scent Kink, Service Top Edward Little, Spiritualist Thomas Jopson, The Wardroom Officers Are All Monster Hunters, Trans Male Thomas Jopson, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Victorian setting, Werewolf Hunter Edward Little, softcore horror, there is gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-26
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:33:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 40,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24909238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/for_autumn_i_am/pseuds/for_autumn_i_am
Summary: There's something in Mr. Hickey's house that doesn't want him there. He invites a group of extraordinary gentlemen to investigate; among them is werewolf hunter Edward Little, who has better things to do on the weekend, but money is money and a man’s gotta eat.Things get strange.
Relationships: Thomas Jopson/Lt Edward Little
Comments: 114
Kudos: 102
Collections: One Week of Terror 2020





	1. It Begins

**Author's Note:**

> Please refer to the end notes for **content warnings**

Arbor Pale Hall  
Bruin Island  
off Amble,  
Northumberland,  
England  
13 October 1845

  
Mr. Edward Little  
Toportyánféreg Tavern  
Bánát,  
Transylvania

_Dear Mr. Little,_

_It has come to my attention that you are a man who is not afraid of the gloaming hours; I hereby humbly request your service, for my home has been plagued by wayward shadows. It gives me great pleasure to inform you that you are one of the select gentlemen of great reputation whom I find suitable for the perilous task; should you accept my offer, you will be joined by the remainder at my address on the 2nd of November. Enclosed you will find the advance payment; you will receive twice the amount once your assignment is fulfilled, plus travel expenses, accomodation, & et cetera. Please kindly inform me of your availability; be assured that your letter will be received with gratitude & discretion. _

_Yours respectfully,  
Cornelius Hickey_

Edward folds the letter, well-thumbed and frayed. He had appreciated its forthright brevity; doubt and uncertainty now seize his heavy heart. There is no way to stop the train: it roars onwards North-East in a cloud of choking white steam. Edward may be uneasy with his decision, but the pocket of his mud-stained waistcoat is comfortably lined with banknotes for once: they made the choice for him.

His is not a common occupation.

He leans back in his seat, briefly touches his beaten walking stick. He keeps checking that it is with him, for the hazel hides a clever silver dagger; he has a pistol hidden under his greatcoat, resting in the shoulder holster: it feels alive, and feels impatient. A knife is strapped to his thigh; rings of silver adorn his bruised fingers. He looks a respectable gentleman, until you look closer.

He is quite sick of hunting werewolves.

Mr. Hickey must be mistaken in employing him; werewolves rarely take up residence inside homes. You have to go deep into the woods. Follow the trail of blood and gore deep into the fog. Listen for a famished howl.

However, if Mr. Hickey gained intelligence of his profession, he might understand that Edward used to wrestle with a variety of monsters, before he was appointed a Huntsman by the Society of Terror. Before he had been clawed.

It is good money, in any case. Good and quick. An escape from the dense forests. An island sounds promising. The sea.

❦

A carriage is waiting for him in Gateshead train station. Single coachman, two horses: both cleveland bays. He reaches out to one; it snorts and stomps, ears flicking back in fear. He reeks of wolf blood. He tips his tophat to the coachman in apology, who pays him no mind.

Edward climbs into the sleek carriage, hides his trunks under the velvet seat; they would not be safe strapped on the roof. He had lost a trunk with a crossbow before. He would rather forego the questioning that followed.

Monsters are everywhere. Most people are unaware, because people like Edward do their jobs well. The Society of Terror is secret.

He glances out of the window once they set in motion. The landscape is a bore: overcast skies, grey horizons; houses scattered here and there, getting scarcer and scarcer.

He barely has time to settle into his book when the carriage draws to a halt. He scoffs at the inconvenience. There is no way they have arrived. He keeps his questions and insults as the door opens; peers up darkly, sliding a finger between the pages pointedly. He expects to see the coachman’s bent form: instead, an angelic figure ascends the stairs. He is the most striking man Edward has ever seen: of his height, but leaner; his skin soft and clean: his movements have a hurried grace as he adjusts a black lock of hair. His eyes capture Edward the most: they are bright and pale, set under heavy brows.

“Thomas Jopson,” he introduces himself, and Edward is glad that both of their hands are gloved, for the handshake would surely sear his skin; he trips over his own name. Jopson sits like a doll, hands resting in his lap and head slightly inclined. A heavy velvet cape rests around his shoulders, affixed with a bow that is almost comically large. Edward thinks of tugging at it, and hides in his book in shame.

His cheeks are burning.

“Pardon me, Mr. Little,” Jopson says as they set out again. Edward looks up, tries not to stare. Jopson fastidiously sets his wide-brimmed hat over his knees; he is soft-spoken, but an East London accent lingers in his vowels. “I hope you don’t mind me asking: are you, too, in Mr. Hickey’s employ?”

“Yes,” Edward says, and cannot think of anything else to add. Jopson leans closer: he is sitting in the seat across, and their legs nearly brush.

“Could you speak of his character?”

“I’m afraid I’m not acquainted with the gentleman, and have no reference.”

“How curious,” Jopson notes, and sinks back in his seat. Looks around, pleased, taking in the dark red cushions, the golden tassels. “He seems to have a taste for luxury.”

“And the money for it, too,” Edward grumbles. He finds the carriage a tad tacky. The gilded doors are unnecessary. It is begging to be robbed.

Jopson smiles, eyes flicking over Edward, who cannot help but sit up taller. Jopson licks his lips, and asks, “May I inquire as to your speciality?”

“I walk in bright moonlight,” Edward says after a beat.

“Werewolves, then,” Jopson translates, nodding to himself. Edward should not be tickled that he seems impressed. “I’m a spiritualist.”

“Oh,” Edward says. Of course. Jopson looks every inch a medium. The clothes. A seer’s eyes. A magnetism that pulls souls through the veil, yearning to connect to him. “Lots of frauds in your field.”

“I can show you my references, should you care to see them,” Jopson offers calmly.

Edward bites his tongue, much upset; he should have learnt long ago not to ever talk.

“That’s not what I meant; merely observational chatter,” he clarifies clumsily. “No er, bamboozlement among Huntsmen. You can’t fake beheading a monster.”

“You do behead them, then?” Jopson inches forward again. Their knees do brush, this time. “I heard it rumoured.”

“When all else fails, yes,” Edward says. Contemplates opening his legs. Decides against. They are to work together; he shall control himself. Only, he spent the last months drenched in all manner of filth. The way Jopson smells is frighteningly attractive: frankincense, wilting flowers, and something electric, like thunder.

“Er,” he says. Clears his throat. Tries again, encouraged by Jopson’s imploring gaze—God, the way he looks at him; Edward knows not if he should be flattered or afraid. “By the description in the letter, however vague, I gather Mr. Hickey will have more use of you than me: the house sounds haunted.”

“Mm.” Jopson bites his lips, contemplating. Edward avoids staring at his mouth. Spiritualists are...not his favourite sort of people. They tend to be flamboyant. Smug. Rich. Easy to make a living, when ghosts populate the Earth. Edward is forced to travel. He wishes he could just set up shop in London. Have his clients claw at the door. “If it’s been going on for a good while, I’m bound to find some ectoplasm; much safer than asking the cards or the spirit board right away. I don’t like to ask questions until I know who I am talking to.”

“Sensible,” Edward mumbles.

Jopson beams at the off-handed praise, and wiggles a bit in his seat. “But you see, with all my gifts, I wouldn’t be able to tell a church grim apart from a skriker, or differentiate a black shuck from a gytrash, if we were to face them.”

“All you have to know is that all of them are right bastards,” Edward says. The suggestion makes sense: if it is a canine spirit causing mischief, then their combined expertise would be requested indeed.

“Let’s hope for a lost soul,” Jopson proposes with a chuckle. He looks over Edward again with a vague expression of indulgence, as if he’s drinking him in sip by sip; then his brows furrow as his eyes settle on Edward’s book. “How inconsiderate of me: I should leave you to your reading.”

Edward should find a way to express that he would much rather talk to a pretty boy than read another word of Mr. Coleridge’s poetry, but he knows not what to say. The conversation ebbs away. He pretends to read while Jopson occupies himself with the scenery, which remains severely uninspiring with gentle slopes of wilted grass and ancient rocks, slow clouds dragging about.

Rain rolls in, unhurried. Jopson puts his forehead against the glass and follows the droplets with the tip of his fingers. Edward keeps stealing glances: Jopson’s hands look soft and able. They would caress him well, if Jopson were so inclined. It has been a while since Edward let himself be touched. It is best to hunt clear-headed. The problems come after, when the high of a kill has no way to fade away, and his blood is singing. He should have stopped in London; found his preferred mollyhouse and the rentboys who know him, know what he needs. There was no time even for a single fuck. His left hand aches from keeping him company.

Jopson glances at him; a knowing smile parts his lips. Edward has to remind himself that spiritualists are not mind readers. If only he were not a terrible partner in conversation. He wishes he had a tongue of silver to woo men like Jopson. He pays for love, because the subtleties of seduction have always escaped him, and finding discreet men of his inclination has proven to be upsettingly difficult. He cannot even be sure that Jopson is one of his kind: he would doubt it, indeed, only Jopson has not stopped staring.

“It’s strange to watch you sit,” Jopson observes. “You look like a man of action, as if this carriage can barely contain you. I have heard that Huntsmen travel on foot; that you camp in the wilderness; that you eat raw meat and berries—”

Edward scoffs, fond, and closes the book with a snap. “We eat what animals we catch,” he says. “Rabbits, deer; we cook them, too, if you would believe it.”

Jopson’s eyes crinkle up. He has dimples when he smiles. Edward wishes to follow their lines with his tongue. “I heard something else rumoured, too.”

“What have you heard, Mr. Jopson?”

The carriage halts abruptly. The motion nearly sends Jopson into his lap: if only it came to that—but stopping again must mean company, so Edward withdraws with regret.

Jopson glances out of the window, much annoyed at the rude interruption, then his face morphs into pleasant shock. “Oh, bless my guiding stars!” he gasps.

Edward follows his line of sight. Two gentlemen wait by a crossroad; one of them wears a checked cape and deerstalker, the other a grey coat and bowler hat. The coachman goes to help with their luggage: they have quite a bit.

Jopson’s demeanour is changed: his sweet coyness forgotten, he shifts in his seat like an eager pupil waiting to be called by his teacher. Edward understand why when the door opens at once, and the one in the grey coat cries with recognition, “Ah, Jopson!”

“Always a delight to see you, sir! Mr. Little, this is Captain Crozier; we worked together before; and it’s my pleasure to introduce Mr. Fitzjames.”

“Not like he needs it,” Crozier grumbles as he climbs in. His companion follows swiftly, his smile radiant.

“Mr. Little, how do you do?”

“How do you do?” Edward echoes diligently, and as Fitzjames settles by Jopson’s side, Edward cannot wait to add, “I’ve read your adventures in the weeklies, sir.”

“Oh, I’m charmed!” Fitzjames takes off his deerstalker and tosses back his dark hair. A consulting detective—the one and only: Edward had always hoped to meet him. “I heard about _you_ , Mr. Little.”

“In my profession, that’s not a compliment,” Edward says mildly, hoping that the humour registers. Only Jopson laughs. The carriage starts; Edward talks over the grind of rock. “I had no idea you dealt in the occult, sir.”

“I deal with him,” Fitzjames says, indicating Crozier, who’s folding out a newspaper. The headlines are announcing mayhem and murder.

“Captain Crozier specialises in sea monsters,” Jopson explains, beaming.

“Specialised,” Crozier corrects. “I’m retired.”

“The invitation was for you both?” Edward asks; Crozier replies with an affirming grunt.

Fitzjames’ dark eyes flash as he looks around the carriage. “Werewolves, ghosts, creatures of the depth, and men capable of murder. If our combined expertise is required, what sort of monster terrorizes Arbor Pale Hall?”

An uneasy pause follows, broken by Crozier as he turns a page, scowling. “He’s shooting in the dark.”

“Pray explain yourself, dear,” Fitzjames says mildly.

“Mr. Hickey,” Crozier says, angling the paper towards the window. “He doesn’t know _what_ it is.”

Edward’s stomach twists.

That is never reassuring.

“Should we swap seats, sir?” Jopson offers, keen. “The sunlight hits better here.”

“Much obliged,” Crozier says. Jopson rises; he has to bend his head as he goes over to Little’s side, takes his seat next to him. His thigh brushes against his. Edward cannot help but face him; he is so close he could count his lashes. Jopson looks back: he presses up to him more deliberately. If they had no company, Edward would rest a hand on his knee. As it is, he looks into his eyes, then his gaze flicks to his lips; back again, a question asked.

Jopson turns away, smiling.

❦

The sea is restless. It shakes with a tremor of little waves whacking into the rocks. The carriage halts by the small port. Fitzjames is the first to leap out, ready for action; Edward helps Jopson alight, who holds onto his arm a heartbeat too long, then lets go.

“Ho, who’s there?” Fitzjames calls, approaching a group of gentlemen. Edward glances at them, then looks again: he recognises the Reverend Irving all right. If only he could forget the exorcism he had witnessed. George Hodgson is also there, in a bright blue coat and yellow cravat, tipping a cream tophat. He is an expert on the fairy folk; Edward always found it a tad absurd that their roads kept crossing. The last time he saw him, Hodgson was kneeling by a circle of mushrooms and talking to somebody too small for Edward to see; for Edward’s part, he was running for his life, chased by a feral pack.

Mr. Hickey really is guessing.

The others, he recognises not; he helps with the trunks, then approaches them, dragging his luggage. The road is muddied from the recent rain. Fitzjames embraces the man with silver hair, then clasps the gold-haired one on the shoulder. He turns to Edward and Jopson, and says, “I want you to meet Mr. Le Vesconte and Mr. Gore, experts of the unliving, and the undead.”

“The unliving?” Edward asks as he shakes Le Vesconte’s hand.

“Animated objects,” Le Vesconte replies easily. “Moving dolls, dancing shoes, weeping statues, you wouldn’t believe how long the list goes on.”

Edward does not press him. He makes his hasty round of greetings and introductions, leaves Jopson to chit-chat, and walks to the pier. Pleasantries are not for him. He works alone; always has. The planks creak under his booted feet. He heads to the end, staring ahead at Bruin Island. It is but a dark blemish: its form is hard to make out in the gloom, but its size is ideal. Small; contained; not many places to hide, and a safe distance from the shore. They can hunt there discreetly. No scream will carry.

A hand lands on his shoulder. He goes stiff, then compels himself to relax. Turns to look into a pair of twinkling eyes in a wind-chafed face.

“Thomas Blanky,” the man says. “You ran off before I could say hello.”

“I didn’t see you,” Edward says, then adds, “Edward Little; pleasure.”

“All mine,” Blanky mutters, looks him over. He gets his pipe from his coat’s pocket, and inclines his head. “Werewolves, eh?”

Edward looks down at his silver rings. “Indeed.”

“Fuck ‘em,” Blanky says, striking a match. The flame illuminates his face; in this lighting, he is more recognisable. Edward has seen his sketched picture in Terror’s logbook.

“You’re a vampire hunter, is that correct?”

“Aye; I’ll be glad if we don’t meet any.”

“Or a demon,” Edward notes, peering over his shoulder, back to Irving. Jopson is laughing at something Gore is saying; he is so charming like this. Edward has the silly instinct to protect him. As if Jopson needed it. He wants to tuck him away in an inn; go hunting; return to him; say: _we are safe_.

“If it’s a demonic infestation, I’m asking for extra pay merely for tolerating it.” Blanky exhales a puff of fragrant smoke. Edward breathes it in, and wishes for his own pipe, which is at the bottom of his trunk.

“Oi, give us some baccy,” Crozier calls from the end of the pier. Blanky pats Edward’s shoulder again and leaves him to his musings.

The island looms on the horizon.

❦

Their combined company nearly sinks the ferryboat of poor Mr. Manson. They have to sit tight, which Edward does not mind much, for he has arranged to sit next to Jopson again. The way he holds onto his hat in the wind is utterly charming. Sea becomes him: brings out the colour of his eyes, and the wind pinkens his cheeks. Edward focuses on that instead of planning an escape route, like he is wont to do. If they have to leave the island in an emergency, they would have to wait for Manson, or swim to the shore.

Edward cannot swim.

They reach the island before Edward gathers his courage to enquire about Jopson’s own abilities as a way of casual conversation. They haul out their luggage; Manson is reluctant to help. He sits in his boat with his knees pulled to his chest, peering at the looming mass of Arbor Pale Hall every now and then.

“If you could kindly deliver this box, sirs,” he says. “Just set it down somewhere, please; it contains Mr. Hickey’s groceries—Mr. Gibson expects them, and will pick up the contents promptly.”

“Well, I never,” Irving scoffs; he seems ready to lecture the poor boy on asking gentlemen for favours, but Blanky intervenes, grabbing the box and grunting under the weight. Jopson comes to his aid while Fitzjames regards their ferryman with a curious expression.

Edward sets out, climbing the mossy path of rock towards the imposing abode. The air smells of earth and stone. It suits Arbor Pale Hall, perched on the island like a forlorn matriarch. It was probably built as a country house, with a thought of leisure and entertainment, but its Palladian architecture gives it an unforgiving rigour. It stands out from the landscape, the sharp lines and curious columns contrasting the natural surroundings most unpleasantly. Edward nearly feels sorry for it: what a handsome, cheerful place could it be in Venice or Athens! A crown jewel for sunny climates; at present, a dropped stone, forgotten. 

He is greeted by a butler in full uniform, white gloves at all; he introduces himself as William Gibson and waits with Edward for the rest of the guests. They are ushered inside: a grandiose double staircase has been crammed into the main hall, and some vainglorious ancestor insisted on marble flooring. Edward shivers in the chill.

“When are we to meet the master?” Hodgson inquires, fastidious as ever; his gaze dances around excitedly—Edward knows he must be looking for a pianoforte and prays he does not locate it.

“Mr. Hickey will join you for supper,” Gibson answers and bows deeply. If he hears Irving’s scoff, he elects to ignore it, and begins sorting them into rooms. Edward was hoping to be neighbours with Jopson, which is rather silly of him. It is no vacation, after all.

They are here to hunt.

It is hard to keep that in mind as he is shown to his quarters: the sad elegance of Arbor Pale Hall lingers, but his room is tolerable. The colours are muted, there are handsome paintings to admire and a cheery fire; a wardrobe to unpack his things; a basin with a pitcher of lukewarm water. He undresses and washes, scraping off the dirt of the road; it takes a good while to scrub himself clean. He cannot fathom why Jopson gave him any attention at all, when he had been so grubby all along. He takes a moment to take off his rings, flex his scarred fingers, then wash his hands thoroughly, until there is no more dried blood under his nails. He keeps glancing over his shoulder; stripped of his weapons, he feels defenseless. The lean dogs on the paintings are watching him, surrounded by white spots like butterflies. Hunting scenes in spring. He touches an old injury, briefly, then marches to the wardrobe, hair still dripping until he shakes his head absently.

He is glad he remembered to pack for dinner. His things are probably out by several seasons, but they are a good fit, and nice quality. He wants to look civilised; like he belongs here. A glance to the bed, his true desires revealed: avoid company and seek sex or rest. It is strange to see an English bed; he has grown accustomed to the painted frames and richly embroidered pillows of Transylvania, a too-high pile of beddings; or else, the moss-mattress of the forests, and his cloak for a duvet.

He wonders whether Jopson travels; the details of his life; some shared sentiments. The sooner they finish here, the sooner he can ask him for a discreet date. In that spirit, he concludes his toilette swiftly and sets out to explore, hair fairly presentable and weapons in place, his boots shining. He steps out of the room. Steps back. Steps out again.

There is definitely a cold spot there.

Might be a draft.

One has to be certain.

He only wishes the cold spot was not lingering in his bloody door. 

Chilled but not dismayed, he heads towards where he suspects the library to be, and ends up in a spacious room with a zoo of taxidermy instead. The animals seem to have judgement for him. He looks a wolf in its blind, resentful glass eyes, and feels chilled again. He draws nearer to the fire, and scoffs at the state of the mantlepiece. It proudly displays childish tokens, crudely carved, and a clock that is ticking out of rhythm. Edward attempts to wind it up, but cannot figure out the working of it. Must be foreign.

The adjoining room is an old-fashioned arsenal, with longswords and muskets mounted high on the walls. There is even a full body of armour. He thinks about lifting the helmet’s visor, then decides against. Gets spooked when the key of a pianoforte clangs in the distance, then an assault of sound follows. He goes in the opposite direction, through a maze of rooms.

None impress him.

Arbor Pale Hall has a boasting quality about it he does not appreciate. It is not luxury that grates on him, but the frivolity of it. He grew up in a manor, after all; a very fine house, a _docile_ home, that was modest in presenting its splendor. He was too young to be grateful for it; he would rather spend his hours in the garden, or in the stalls; he would even sleep there, curled close to his favourite horse, and listening to the rustle of leaves.

That did not turn out so well, did it?

Alone in a stall. The bushes trembling. How the wind screamed. The white of his horse’s eye. The moonlight.

He locates a parlour emitting the drone of human voices and enters, slightly out of breath. The light of the chandelier is nearly blinding. He feels like he is back on the ferryboat, with waves tugging at him; he is unsteady on his feet, faint; needs to hold onto the polished door knob for a second.

“Welcome to the room with the right kind of spirits,” Le Vesconte greets him from an armchair by the fireplace, raising a glinting glass of brandy.

Edward has half a mind to turn back and gently pull the door closed as he goes. Before he can politely retreat, he spots Jopson on a pearl white divan, engaged in conversation; he looks divine, as if he was sitting on a cloud. He has taken off his cape. The sinewy frame revealed is exactly to Edward’s liking. The kind of body he loves pushing against his, writhing on silk. Were they alone in the room; would Jopson find him agreeable: he would splay him out on that very divan, bury himself in his heat, and forget.

He staggers to the cellarette, in dire need of a drink to rein in his cantering mind. The assortment of liqueurs is overwhelming. He stares at the bottles numbly, not knowing what exactly he desires or needs. Crozier is nearby, pouring out a glass; he raises a decanter of whiskey in question; Edward accepts with some relief, and throws back a generous gulp. Closes his eyes. Let it burn through him.

It is just nerves.

That is all there is.

That, and whatever bedevils the building.

He needs not be troubled; he is in outstanding company. He is straining his ears to overhear what Jopson is saying, to find solace in the lull of his voice, but Irving talks over him.

“...nonsense. With your pardon, I must voice the opinion that the Good Lord does not grant us ghosts.”

“As an opinion, it is as surefooted as any,” Jopson says sweetly. Edward cranes his neck, and espies that Gore is also seated in the circle, and is hiding a smile in his wine. Edward decides he likes him.

“Father,” Gore says, “will you excuse me the existence of the undead?”

Irving makes a dismissive gesture. “That’s different; for those wretched creatures are but reanimated corpses, brainless, soulless; but the idea that man’s immortal soul might linger trapped between Heaven and Hell is a perverse misrepresentation of the Scripture, and all that we know of the afterlife. This is not an attack on your person, of course, Mr. Jopson.” He touches his arm briefly; Edward tenses seeing it.

“God save us from ministers,” Crozier mumbles, and wanders to the fireplace to join Le Vesconte. He takes the bottle with him.

“What say you to the observable, then?” Jopson asks, crossing his legs. His face is serene, but his fingers are tight around his glass, and his eyes cut like shards.

“Beg your pardon?”

“Ghosts are observable; if they are nonexistent, how can they be perceived?”

“See,” Irving says, taking an excited sip from what appears to be sherry, “this is where the devil’s trick is: for he sends his demons to talk to you. Hear me: demons are deceptive; they will pretend to be a dead relative, children, especially, to gain the confidence of good Christians.”

Edward can bear it no more: he steps in swiftly without thinking. All eyes are on him; he burns under their gazes, but focuses his attention to Jopson, whose death-grip on the glass eases instantly, seeing him. Edward reaches for him, saying, “I must steal you away, Mr. Jopson, for your advice is needed: I might have mistaken puppies for werewolves all along.” He pulls him away from a gaping Irving; Gore turns to him, diverting his offended sputtering with a question on ghouls.

Jopson is trying to hide a grin as Edward steers them towards the paned window. “He will never forgive you,” he whispers.

“Well, he should; that’s his job.” Edward remembers to let go of him, fretful that he overstepped. Jopson looks pleased; he takes a sip from his drink; brandy, by the oakish scent of it. Edward would love to kiss it from his lips. He just stands, stiff, watching Jopson swallow, thirsting for a sip.

Jopson licks his mouth, chasing an errant drop. His wet lips glint. He peers over at Irving, then his gaze flicks back to Edward, and never strays again. “Poor priest; while I appreciate the rescue, apologies are in order. He told me you were friends.”

“We’re acquainted; he knows me well enough to be used to my sacrilege.”

Jopson tilts his head as he looks Edward over. He touches the glass to his lips, but does not drink again. “Not a God-fearing gentleman, then?” he asks, voice more a purr than a whisper.

“My conscience is clear,” Edward says. Jopson’s gaze is intent; it lingers, emboldening Edward to add, “I’ve only ever sinned in delicious ways.” 

Jopson’s eyes darken, his lashes flicker; he half-turns, feigning to look out of the window, and says, “You should come to my room after supper.” He seeks out his gaze in the reflection. “I see we need to discuss the dangers threatening your immortal soul.”

“Will I be absolved?” Edward grumbles, stepping closer.

Jopson smiles, adjusting his hair. “Please, I only offer rapture and ecstasy.”

Edward grunts in answer. He needs to restrain himself not to betray his attraction in public; oh, would that he could kiss him! Claim those wicked lips, lick into their sweetness. He is wanted; Jopson wants him; and not even the devil’s dandy dogs could hold him back now.

A bell sounds, a slow toll announcing a ready table. Jopson pulls away with a reluctance that does not escape Edward’s notice; he grins to himself as they all head out, an expression so foreign it makes his jaw ache.

“Oh, laugh it up,” Irving says, falling into step with him. “If I only knew why I tolerate those boorish jokes of yours!”

“You must admit you are not in the right crowd for preaching,” Edward remarks, making an encompassing gesture at their peculiar company as they march through the yawning hallway.

Irving scrunches up his nose. “My word,” he says. “And you wonder why you are plagued with all manners of monsters; Mr. Hickey, indeed, must be very confused. He should have just called for me: have you noticed that there is not a single cross or any manner of depiction of the Good Lord in this house?”

Edward pretends to be a person who observed many things beyond the handsome Mr. Jopson. “He cannot be entirely ungodly,” he reasons, “if he called for you.”

“Balderdash; I tell you, some people don’t even set foot in a church on Christmas— _Christmas_ , Edward—but the moment they get possessed, they come screaming for help!”

Edward bites his lips, trying to resist a comment, then lets the words spill. “Being possessed, what else can they do but scream?”

Irving hits his shoulder. Edward hits back. They are friends again. Edward offers his arm as they near the stairs, and says, “Maybe Mr. Hickey is just a bit eccentric.”

❦

Mr. Hickey is exceedingly eccentric. At dinner, he sits at the table’s head in a chair which was clearly not made for the place: its dark oak is in sharp contrast with the rest of the furniture, the light colours of the room. The lamps and chandeliers are shining bright, yet he seem to have insisted on lighting candles, and he has them served lobster in November.

He is a curious little man with shifting eyes and a sharp face; his hair has been combed carefully by a servant’s knowing hand, and he wears a monocle. Edward gets tired just keeping track of the emotions crossing his face, even though they centre on cheer. He turns to his pudding, poking at it mournfully. A better dessert awaits him, but the dinner goes on endlessly: four courses, and cigarettes after. Jopson is seated far down the table; Edward is stuck facing Fitzjames, which is, at least, a treat, for he has quite a collection of fantastic dinner stories. As the general chatter of pleasantries halt, Fitzjames takes the opportunity to address Hickey.

“Not to sour the sweetness of this most excellent dessert,” he says, “but I believe I speak for everybody when I say we are eager to hear more on what, exactly, you are experiencing.”

“What do you mean?” Hickey quips, and for a horrible moment Edward thinks he has been tricked into a _dinner party_ instead of a hunting trip.

Fitzjames leans on the table, his fingers forming a triangle. “The preternatural phenomena.”

Hickey’s smile is a slow, calculated thing. “You, gentlemen, will agree with me that there is nothing preternatural in your dealings. All your creatures are part of our natural world.”

“ _Définissez les termes_ ,” Hodgson quotes, nodding, “ _vous dis-je, ou jamais nous ne nous entendrons._ ”

Hickey blinks in his direction. His smile stays. “In English, if you please.”

“‘Define your terms, you will permit me again to say, or we shall never understand one another,’” Hodgson translates with a hint of embarrassment. “Voltaire.”

“We shall define our terms,” Hickey muses. He sets aside his silver spoon, and looks around. “I don’t know what to call it. I don’t know how to describe it. I want you to look, and see.”

“Any bleeding portraits?” Le Vesconte asks.

“Perhaps chanting in a foreign language,” Irving interjects. “Often Latin.”

“Soup could’ve done with more garlic,” Blanky mutters. “Just sayin’. For next time. As a preventative measure.”

Hickey leans back in his throne of a chair. Waits until everybody looks at him. His face looks golden in the flicker of candles. “I don’t want to influence your impressions,” he says, oddly amused. “I’d ask you to conduct your investigations—you _are_ familiar with the methods, Mr. Fitzjames—and report your findings before we do...define our terms.” 

Edward scowls, but says nothing. At least they will earn the worth of their money: Hickey may just have added days to the contract.

More time for Jopson and him to share. In a cursed abode, but beggars cannot be choosers.

“I have not lived here long,” Hickey says, the soft drone of his voice commanding the room. “When I got Arbor Pale Hall, I thought I had inherited Paradise, but the gates of Hell opened instead. There have been tricks, yes; bumps in the night and horrors even in daylight.”

“How frequent are these horrors?” Fitzjames presses on.

There is a strange quality of serenity in Hickey’s voice as he says, “Endless.” 

“A case of living nightmare,” Crozier remarks, and reaches for his drink. Edward does the same. Sunshine would rule out most werewolves, except those who are most dangerous: who cannot change their skins no more; the ones far beyond saving; when they have gone so feral, in fact, that they become Edward’s concern.

“I’m glad to have the privilege to contact you, gentlemen,” Hickey says. “Were I not part of polite society and thus privy to the existence of your services, people would say I have gone insane.” 

Gore regards him with sympathy. “You must be quite shaken, still, to live through what you’re experiencing.”

“On the contrary,” Hickey says softly. “My mind has never been clearer.” He raises his glass: it is empty. Gibson steps up to him with a pitcher of water. No wonder Hickey claims to have a clean head: everyone else is half-drunk by now. Edward feels the alcohol buzz in his blood. His vision is not quite focused as he watches Gibson pour the drink; watches how his fingers slip: the delicate crystal pitcher tumbles to the ground and shatters.

Jopson jumps to his feet; he is quite close to Gibson, and leans to offer his help. Hickey stops him with a raised hand.

“Billy must pick it up himself,” he says. “If he doesn’t pick it up, he never learns. Come on, then. Clean up after yourself.”

Gibson sinks to his knees. He is a pitiful sight: his hollow cheeks are too pale, and there are bruised shadows around his eyes. His white gloves get soaked through as he starts gathering the shards wordlessly on a silver tray.

Jopson is still on his feet. “Let me help,” he insists. “It’s no problem.”

“Sit,” Hickey says, pointing at Jopson’s chair.

Jopson looks at him directly. His eyes are such a pale blue they almost look white. Slowly, they roll back.

The shards of glass float in the air.

Gibson scrambles away as the pitcher comes back together, levitating in front of Hickey, who watches on without betraying any emotion. The candelabra lifts too; the cutlery, the plates and glasses, and the wine in them, until the table itself is suspended in air. Edward stares, stunned, awed; Jopson does not move; he stands sightless, only the rapid rise and fall of his chest betraying he is yet living.

“I think you have made your point, Mr. Jopson,” Hickey says. “Thank you.”

Everything drops. The pitcher crashes onto Hickey’s plate, falling back to pieces. Jopson stumbles back, sinks into his chair. He is gasping for breath, loosens his collar as Crozier steadies him. Hickey watches on, smiling. He reaches for his butter knife.

❦

Jopson is still quite overcome when they all withdraw to the parlour to smoke. He fumbles with his cigarette, staring vacantly ahead; his hair is in his eyes, and his complexion is flushed as he sits shivering.

Edward has never seen a more powerful thing.

He is torn by the twin desire to submit to him and worship or else dominate: for having such might under his command would be exquisite. More than anything, he wishes he had the freedom to comfort. Fitzjames and Crozier sit with Jopson. They have found him a quilt and sit closely, listening to his needs; when he asks for brandy, it is presented posthaste, and Jopson drinks like he would otherwise faint.

If Edward sat with him, he would rub his back, take his temperature. Jopson looks feverish: he is beautiful like this, beautiful always. Edward cherishes the glimpse at his golden heart just as much as he admires the iron of his will.

“Most strange,” he overhears Fitzjames whispering. “A mystery, but not like the one I expected.”

“Do you need your thinking pipe?” Crozier asks.

“Only your company, darling; you’ll have to lend me your ear.”

“I shall leave you to it,” Jopson says, rising.

“Nonsense,” Fitzjames says. “You can be part of our conversation, Mr. Jopson; we have no secrets from you.”

“I’m awfully exhausted,” Jopson says. “You must excuse me, sirs: I wish to retire to my room.”

“Of course, Jopson,” Crozier agrees with the fondness of a father, not just a former employer. Jopson bows to them; as he straightens, he meets Edward’s gaze.

Does not look away.

Edward inhales the smoke of his trusted pipe, holds it in his mouth and lets the smoke curl from his lips just as Jopson passes him. Jopson parts his lips and breaths it in. He is gone in a whiff, but his presence lingers with the delicious air of tobacco.

The invitation stands, then.

Edward feels lightheaded.

He has never been this lucky in finding a lover—and what a lover!—unless their preference happens to be dark, brooding men heavily armed. It seemed to be the case occasionally: but there was still a game to play, that of knowing gazes, accidental brushes, the tap of fingers, and often, the exchange of favour for coins. 

Jopson already feels precious; Edward awaits their unity just as much as another chance to talk to him, for he makes conversation easy. He must wait: just a few moments longer; to preserve Mr. Jopson’s reputation, avoid suspicion. Were he a wolf, he would shed decorum, howl and claw at his door; but he is a man—he is—he needs to control himself, resist his desire as he resists his temper, master his emotions and delay fulfillment.

The parlour is packed: groups of two and three are engaged in chatter, smoking, and the taking of coffee. Even Hickey is present, discussing something with Gore. Edward does not trust his fox’s eyes: he must suspect nothing. Edward looks around for a group to join as he waits. Hodgson’s giggles hurt his ears; he is weary of Blanky’s frankness; Le Vesconte would try to be pals; his best bet is Crozier, who shares his aversion to polite chatter and big crowds. He sits with his head bent towards Fitzjames, who is talking in hushed tones, rapidly, a hand flying to punctuate his meaning. The interruption will be awkward, but maybe awkward enough to be memorable, for people to say, _didn’t Mr. Little spend the evening talking to Mr. Fitzjames_?

He chews at his pipe and steps forward. Gibson has the same idea: he steps in from the left, bending to clean the ashtray.

It is empty.

“Go away,” Gibson says.

Crozier glares.

“Pardon?” Fitzjames asks with an easy air; the twist of his mouth is much disturbed.

“You don’t know what’s going on, sir,” Gibson says, slow and even, his lips barely moving. “You must go.”

“I’m starting to have an idea,” Fitzjames says, “as to what’s happening.”

“Then you know you shall leave, sir. Before it begins.”

“It hasn’t started yet?”

“Oi, Billy!” Mr. Hickey calls, snapping a finger. “Mr. Gore would like some champagne!”

“If you would be so kind, Mr. Gibson,” Gore hastens to add. Gibson gives Crozier a quick glance, and steps away.

“Poor boy,” Crozier muses, looking after him with worry. “We must get him out of here.”

“We will,” Fitzjames says. “In the morning, when the waters are safe.”

“He won’t go,” Edward says. Crozier and Fitzjames look up at the same time; Fitzjames indicates the armchair facing them. Edward sits, even though he regrets speaking. He should have just gone up to Irving.

“Do elaborate, Mr. Little,” Crozier says.

“I know the type,” Edward says. “He doesn’t have anywhere to go to. This is his home. Mr. Hickey is…”

“Obviously,” Fitzjames chimes in.

“He won’t leave him.”

“Wretched thing, love is.” Crozier gives Gibson a last, anxious look.

“Maybe if we catch the thing,” Edward says. “The house could settle back...being normal.”

Fitzjames makes an amused sound, but does not comment; he takes a draw from his pipe, and asks, “Have you had time to look around?”

“I walked a bit.”

“I recommend the library.” 

Edward nods, vaguely. The parlour is so full of light, so alive—it is hard to believe anything could go awry.

He knows not to trust that instinct.

“How do you know Mr. Jopson?” he proposes to change the subject. Fitzjames prompts Crozier to speak.

“As you can imagine,” Crozier says, “childhood is not easy on his kind. His mother brought him to Terror. I was his patron. They had nothing. I saw that he had a good education and lived comfortably. I was still active in those years; he begged to come with. When I saw him prepared I finally agreed. We sailed to the Antarctic.” He falls silent; his gaze is empty.

“With Sir James Clark Ross,” Edward prompts. “I’ve read about it.”

“You’ve read what’s public.”

“What really happened, then?”

“I took him with me, and the poor thing, terrified of his talents still, saw an entire bloody ghost ship. You must ask him for the rest. It’s not my story to tell.”

❦

Edward knocks on Jopson’s door and waits to be admitted. There is but a thin sliver of light shining through the frame: a lamp turned low and burning late.

“Come in,” Jopson prompts. Edward looks around to be certain that the hallway is deserted, at least by humans: slips inside, and locks the door promptly. Notices a line of salt on the threshold and smiles to himself. He wants to comment on it as he looks up, but his words halt.

Jopson is abed.

He left the covers on. He has a book at hand as he lounges, shoes taken off and frock coat stripped. He is in waistcoat and shirtsleeves, smiling at Edward as he lowers the book to his stomach, pages down. “I cannot concentrate, if you believe it. My mind is occupied by the wildest imaginings.”

“Such as?” Edward asks, stepping out of his boots. Jopson does not stop him. He watches on with a dreamy expression on his face. Darling Jopson: Edward wants to know more—know him completely—mind, soul, body; oh, he wants to love him.

“I could swear,” Jopson says, “that there’s a huntsman in my room, undressing much too slowly. If only he would come hither: if I could touch him, I’d know if he’s truly here.”

“Keep looking,” Edward says, shedding his coat. He lets it drop to the lush carpet, and works the buckles of his harness as he nears the bed. Jopson belongs there: the richness of the pillows become him, the gentle glow of the lamp on the bedside table—which displays, modestly, a bottle of oil and a handkerchief.

“If I could taste him,” Jopson goes on, “I would know.”

“I think you can smell him a mile away,” Edward grumbles as he kneels on the bed. He hopes his toilette will not fail him. He wants to smell his best, taste his best, look his best, feel his best for Jopson, and sound his best too. He does not trust his words, but he suspects that Jopson finds his voice attractive: he gasps before Edward would touch him, kneeling over him; moans before Edward presses his lips to his. A brief kiss; Edward pulls away before it could be deepened, searching Jopson’s gaze. He looks weary still, but eager more than anything. He deserves this treat, for he has been so good the whole day, so utterly charming.

Edward cups his face with one ring-adorned hand, kisses him again, slower, letting out a deep, pleased growl as Jopson licks into his mouth, explores him with little laps, savouring his tongue. He holds onto his shoulders, kneading them: Edward melts, sighs into the kiss, nuzzles his face. Jopson smells exquisite up close. The scent of frankincense is fading away to give way to the heat of his skin and something ripe and earthy. Edward licks at his jaw, for he must taste him, lap it up all—

He stops himself to take a deep breath, exhaling it near Jopson’s ear. “You told me in the carriage,” he whispers low, “that you heard a rumour about Huntsmen.”

“Mm.”

“What was it?”

Jopson peers up at him innocently. His eyes are a deep green in the light; Edward remembers them white and trembles, thrilled.

“I heard,” Jopson says, “that they’re excellent lovers.”

Edward chuckles; a breathless rumble. Good God, this man; this wonder. He caresses down his chest—feels the firmness of posture stays—then slides his hand lower. “Been meaning to fuck one?” he probes.

“You,” Jopson whispers, legs falling open. “I dearly want you to ravage me.”

Edward gropes at him: finds no hardness there, but a softness that gives.

“Make no mistake,” Jopson says. “What you’re touching makes some think I’m not a man: but I am—it’s only my anatomy that differs; don’t be fooled by it, please.”

“Very well, Mr. Jopson,” Edward says, pressing down harder. “You must teach me what pleases you.”

“Fewer clothes,” Jopson pants. 

Edward kneels up to comply with the request. He wants to tear his waistcoat off, shred the shirt: forces his hand to be meticulous—as he fights with his buttons, he notices Jopson grinding against his knee. He shoves it in more firmly, making Jopson moan.

“Find your pleasure,” he says. “I mind it not; I’m here to give you exactly that.”

He reaches back to tug his shirt off. He must be quite the sight, sweating, scarred, brutish and hairy, but Jopson ruts against him more forcefully, eyes gone dark and mouth slack. Edward’s trousers should be next, but he cannot resist a kiss: he dives in to claim Jopson’s lips, swallow his whimpers as he rubs his knee over the sensitive part of him.

“I will fuck you just how you instruct me,” Edward rasps, “use me, Mr. Jopson, make me your plaything…”

Jopson whines, arching up. Edward grabs at him again, fondling his beautiful bulge. Jopson splays his hand over his, guides it to his liking, instructing him wordlessly to open and close his grip, rubbing at him through the trousers. Edward will tug them off with his teeth, if necessary, but how could he stop touching Jopson, when it pleases him so? All Edward wants is to indulge, so he keeps stroking him firmly like he has been shown. It is not about his bliss; not yet: his joy is to give Jopson everything he desires.

“You enjoy my palm so much,” he teases, “and you didn’t even ask to look at it.”

Jopson laughs breathlessly, beams up at him. Edward does not know if Jopson is making him float, because he feels like soaring from joy, like he weighs nothing, for he is happy; he is with a man he admires already, and who likes him—Jopson looks so fond of him—he lets him pleasure him, and caresses his whiskers.

“Palmistry is not my strongest suit,” he confesses humbly.

“Then how do you know if your lover will be any good?”

“I ask him if he’s called Mr. Little.”

Edward smiles again, and has to look away, feeling shy even as he is bringing a man off; Jopson takes pity on him, squeezes his hand then stills its movements. “Show me, then.”

“You could look at my left.”

“It has to be the dominant hand.”

Edward snorts, but obeys, sitting back on his heels. Jopson regards him with a headtilt, and says, “Lie down on your back.”

“I doubt this is standard practice,” Edward complains even as he rushes to comply; the air is nearly knocked out of his lungs as he slumps. Jopson climbs over him lazily, taking his place over his belly. His arse is pressing down on Edward’s hardening cock.

“You’re getting exclusive treatment,” Jopson says, kisses his knuckles. Edward feels like blushing. His hips buck excitedly; Jopson smiles at feeling it, rocks back a little in answer.

Edward is going to fuck him so well.

Jopson holds his wrist, angles his palm so it faces the light. He must feel the jump of his heart. Edward needs to be tame for him. He bites his lips, gnaws at them while Jopson examines his palm, traces his fingers.

“Each part of your hand,” he explains breathlessly, “represents a Roman God or Goddess. Mercury, Apollo, Saturn and Jupiter for your fingers; the thumb is yours: it’s your power of will. Here’s the girdle of Venus,” he presses down on a fleshy part that makes Edward thrash under him. “Yes, that has to do with your love life; but we want to see your heartline, for it spells out your history.” He peers down at him. “May I read it?”

“It’s not very impressive,” Edward mumbles.

“Says the man with this many lovers,” Jopson says smugly. He follows the jagged line with a nail; it makes Edward shiver. “I can see money exchanged hands more often than not, but I wager you came into this habit because you form attachments too easily. Here: age nine, your first love. He broke your heart. Thirteen: a schoolmate; you never told him. Fourteen: you discovered yourself, but stopped until you were sixteen because here, that’s shame. This is also the time you got rid of your virginity, for you felt uncomfortable holding onto it; it made any flare of attraction frightening, knowing you were inexperienced—”

“You said it wasn’t your strong suit,” Edward remarks. Jopson gives him a coy smile, and shifts on his hips, rubbing against his prick.

“I’m not as good at it as I excel in...other things.”

“Jump forward a bit.”

“Where to, Mr. Little?”

“Seven and twenty.”

Jopson’s eyes round. “Did you really—?”

“I paid them double.”

“What else is there?”

“Look at the present.” Edward gives him a little nudge with his cock.

Jopson scoffs. “Only major events are written on your palm.”

“I intend tonight to be quite the event,” Edward says fervently. Jopson peers at him, as if trying to see if he is jesting. Edward regards him earnestly. Jopson is precious: he shall not waste him. Jopson adjusts his hair quickly, then runs a finger through that warm line.

His touch halts.

His face changes.

It is completely blank.

“Well,” he says. “Just my luck.”

“What?”

Jopson shakes his head, wordless, and makes to climb off him. Edward grabs his wrists, and sits up swiftly. “Tell me, please,” he implores.

Jopson tugs his hands free, crosses them over his chest. He looks hurt; a game, maybe—but what cruel play! It pains Edward to see him like this, when just a moment ago he had been teasing, laughing, and before that, he yielded his soul and body to Edward, who was ready to take him: he is ready still. He should not have asked his palm to be read: he wants to forget all about it and return to kissing and stroking, have Jopson beneath him. He wants to prove that whatever his palm shows, it must be false, for he would never do anything to harm him.

“Mortal danger,” Jopson says. “You leave a lover to die.”

“Impossible!”

“See, it’s here.” Jopson grabs for his hand, frantic: pulls it closer to him, poking at Edward’s palm. “See that? The mark of death: you will abandon me in grievous peril.”

“Never,” Edward grumbles, taking his hand back. He cradles it against his chest, and looks Jopson over. “You said it wasn’t—”

“I recognise _death_!” Jopson interrupts, bitter.

“Does your life-line end, then?”

“I cannot read my own palm, and I never had it read; I never wanted to know—oh, it’s awful!” He pulls up his legs and hugs them. Even through the thick mist of anger and offense, sympathy shines through: Edward yearns to hold him and offer solace. He trusts himself better than the lines on his hand, but for Jopson, palmistry must be better evidence than any oath of loyalty. Edward inches closer, places a placating hand on Jopson’s knee. He does not pull away, but he glares at Edward with vexed tears in his eyes. If only Edward could kiss them away: but he realises that chance is missed.

“If it’s like a curse,” he says, desperate, “is there a way to break it?”

“It’s fate,” Jopson says.

“Cannot fate be changed?”

“Only if we know what sets the events in motion.”

Edward is silent for a moment, staring at his hand on Jopson’s knee. Dear Jopson: the boy with his ghost ship, a man who trembles under his own power. He would never abandon him; he loves him too much already.

“You saw it on my love line,” he says with difficulty. “Maybe if we don’t become lovers, it never happens.”

Jopson blinks and looks away, rubbing at his eye with a fist. “That’s plausible,” he says. He will not meet Edward’s gaze again: he stares at the window, jaw set. “You must consider that we cannot know for certain; maybe my affinity alone—” He shakes his head. “I’m a spirit medium: I do not possess the Sight, but the future is an art. You must understand that what I espied of your future is, for me, the present: for right at this moment, it’s just as solidly set. You already betrayed me; so at present, I’m rather cross with you.”

Edward swallows. Tears well up in his eyes too; but he has no right to cry. He takes back his hand, pulling it off Jopson’s knee in a caress. “Should I leave you be?” he asks, waiting for the answer as a final stab of judgement. He has been measured, and found lacking: for cowardice is his destiny.

“Please,” Jopson says; his face is pale in the moonlight, and his tears shine. “I wish to be alone.”

Edward collects his clothes, dejected. Maybe he should stomp, rage, swear his passion; challenge fate; but he feels hollow and dazed. If Jopson lost respect for him, he can only agree. He would not credit himself either. He slips away like a shadow, only lingering by the door a moment. He can feel Jopson’s gaze on him, but does not turn to see him. Words—words are needed; a reassurance, a promise; but there is nothing left to say.

Jopson was too good to have anyway.

He does not deserve him.

Self-hatred is a dragger: he twists it in his own chest, slides it deeper than Jopson ever struck it, tearing up scars new and old. If only he could flay himself. Climb out of this skin. Begin again.

He hardly sees the hallway. The patterns of the stone floor are blurred in his vision. He shall head for a walk, or else he will spend the night pacing and be mistaken for an anxious spirit. He should go to the sea and reflect on the future: the very fact that he will always be _himself_ , even when he tries his best, even as he tries to overcome all the ugliness.

❦

The walk only makes him more miserable. He returns to the house shivering and drenched in sea vapour; he is lucky he did not break his neck, roaming in the dark so, but his eyes are adjusted to moonlight; he can see well enough, even half-blind with stinging tears.

His eyes are dry now.

He looks presentable.

All the better, for he finds Hickey in the hall, gazing up with his neck craned. Edward glances up at the twine of the twin staircases, then looks back at Hickey, who does not seem to notice him. He is unsettlingly transfixed. Edward hears dripping; checks his coat hurriedly, not wanting to drag mud all over the place and burden poor Gibson.

The drops on the marble are scarlet and round.

“I think you should alert the others, Mr. Little,” Hickey says slowly, staring up still. Edward looks again; cries out: a strangled sound.

Gibson hangs high-high up, with a rope around his ankles. His neck is torn open. He is looking back at them.

Edward takes a few steps back. He should run: back to the garden, back to shore, far and away. Chilled, he thinks of Jopson: if the thing is about, he is in danger—they all are.

He rushes to warn, nearly slipping. Flies up the stairs without looking back, his vision a dark tunnel. He finds the door of the parlour open. A quick glance: Jopson is there, dressed again, fumbling with a cigarette, and there is chatter and laughter—Edward looks around, does a headcount—no-one is missing—Hodgson notices him, and waves him in. Edward stands, transfixed, counting again, but he is not calmed, for death is around—one, two, three, four—

“What news, Mr. Little?” Crozier asks. “I don’t want to make the obvious joke, but you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Five, six, seven, and himself, the eighth.

“Mr. Gibson is dead,” he announces.

The parlour is stirred into motion: everyone jumps up, but Edward finds he cannot move as they rush to him. He is not going back; he does not want to see it again; Gibson’s blue eyes, empty but wide-open—

Jopson touches his arm. “Show us where,” he pleads. His eyes are red from smoke and tears. Edward cannot say no to him: he leads the way, feeling as if he is walking in a dream, and turning a corner, he might find himself in new scenery.

He had been walking on the premises.

Before that, he was in Jopson’s bed.

The last time he saw Gibson alive he told them to leave.

Crozier and Fitzjames wanted to get a boat for him. Help him escape.

They all failed him.

They gather in the hall where Hickey still stands, with the same captive expression, as if he is forcing himself to look. Edward keeps his gaze on the ground, seeking out Jopson’s shoes, to know that he is there, to be assured—

“When did you find him?” Fitzjames asks.

“I asked for champagne,” Hickey says, toneless. “We didn’t have it in the cellarette. I sent him to fetch it from belowstairs. He was very, very late. Annoyed, I followed him. I found him like this. Then Mr. Little came. I don’t think it’s been a minute. Is he looking at you too?”

Edward keeps staring at the ground.

His heart thuds and it feels like a mockery of the tragedy, it feels vulgar, to feel the rush of blood when droplets gather on the floor, drip-drip-dripping down, raining on the witnesses.

 _Dearly gathered. You came here to protect. Watch where it leads_. 

“We must see to it that the rest of the household is safe,” Crozier says. “Thomas, please.”

“Aye, right away.”

“Mr. Little, I want you and Mr. Le Vesconte to search the rooms here and examine the cellar; Mr. Hodgson and Mr. Gore, the first floor; Mr. Irving, Mr. Jopson, the second; James and myself will search the third floor after we have secured the body.”

Edward wants to protest: how could he let Jopson out of his sight now? But how could he protect him? He lacks the training, or the guts for it; indeed, he is shivering violently as Le Vesconte and him set out. Beyond every door, there could be some new terror.

“It’s not a werewolf,” Edward says, forcing the words through the chattering of his teeth. He must control himself. People need him to be brave. Jopson needs him.

He reaches for his gun.

“It could be anything,” Le Vesconte says, peering into the library then motioning for Edward to come along. It is dark here, only the waxing moon shining through the windows.

“A werewolf wouldn’t waste the meat,” Edward says. He can still smell it. He swears he can smell it. The sharpness of flesh; the warmth of it.

“If you say so,” Le Vesconte mutters, distracted. Gets a lantern; struggles with lighting it as Edward looks around, at the tall shelves filled with volumes upon volumes of dusty books. “Come along,” Le Vesconte nudges him.

They walk through an office to the dining room, check out the butler’s pantry, the housekeeper’s room, the larder and scullery, and come up empty; they cross the hall again, and find Gibson’s corpse wrapped in a blanket. He is bleeding through it. Hickey is kneeling now, cradling his head in his lap, stroking the bloody curls while he talks to Crozier. Edward turns away sharply. He feels sick.

“I don’t like him,” Le Vesconte says, hushed, as they enter a drawing room filled with rich décor.

“When did he leave?”

“I can’t recall; I was more interested in the paintings.”

“What about them?”

“Look here.” Le Vesconte raises his lantern; the light falls over the portrait of a blonde lady in red. “Observe the background.”

Edward squints, leans closer. He holds his back as he examines in: he sees nothing amiss—unless—

“Do you mean the white droplets of paint?”

“Indeed,” Le Vesconte says, dropping his voice even lower. “A clumsy, but common enough mistake, you would think—common enough, in fact, that all paintings in the house have them.”

Edward looks again, chilled. “Could be some kind of mold,” he wagers, trying to convince himself. “Doesn’t have to be anything sinister.”

“I hope you’re correct.” 

Edward follows him to the next set of drawing rooms, the hunting room and the arsenal while he tries to piece it all together. His mind turns around the mystery like a möbius strip: it loops back onto itself. Nothing makes sense.

They take the long flights of steps leading down to the open cellar; here, Edward halts, crunches down and asks for the light.

A broken bottle of champagne glints, and the soft wood is marked by nails.

“He was dragged upstairs,” Edward says.

“By Jove,” Le Vesconte mutters.

Edward looks into the darkness. A gust of cold air hits him. It smells like wet stone and cement, and something else: blood. He takes a deep breath, shakes himself, and steps in.

He must prove himself worthy.

Meat hangs from hooks. Pork. The barrels are neatly packed. On the shelves, preservants. There is a sturdy ladder, standing like a tall skeleton. Edward turns around: the room is small, packed nearly full.

“Oh _no_ , thank you,” Le Vesconte says. “Absolutely not. Don’t you just despise places like this? As if it were designed for murder; the cold stone everywhere; like a cave—I tell you what, Mr. Little, my own little cellar has a cheery wallpaper, and I had a rug ordered—”

“Hush,” Edward mutters. He turns around once again, gaze jumping from wall to wall.

“No need to be like that,” Le Vesconte says, offended. “If you would rather not have me talk, I understand; I’m quite shaken myself—”

“Hush,” Edward repeats, “don’t you hear it?”

“Hear wh—”

“ _Hush_.”

Le Vesconte bites his lips, glaring.

Edward regards him, the flare of his nostrils, the rise and fall of his chest. It is out of rhythm with the breathing he hears.

He closes his eyes, and mutters a curse.

“It’s here,” he says softly.

“Is it behind me?” Le Vesconte says, in an oddly resigned tone: it speaks of past experiences.

“I can’t _see_ it, can I?” Edward grumbles.

“We should alert—”

“Yes.”

“I’m counting to three,” Le Vesconte says. “Then we run.”

A shadow shifts.

“Let’s run now.”

The darkness expands. Edward grabs Le Vesconte’s arm, drags him after him, past the line of meat, nearly slipping on the old blood on the floor; up the stairs, where Gibson met his death; looks back.

The cellar is empty.

It swims in a green glow, and only the shadows move.

“No,” Le Vesconte says, and keeps chanting as they reach their escape, “no, no, no, no, no—”

“A ghost?” Edward guesses, breathless, running away from the stairs, the cellar, the dancing darkness. The world around him spins: it is darkness and light and light again, blazing and brilliant, and he hears Le Vesconte shout, _get Mr. Jopson_ , before he drops.

❦

Edward wakes in his room with a frightful taste in his mouth and his head aching profoundly. Someone had the courtesy to take off his boots and loosen his collar before they disposed of him on the bed. There is even a glass of water waiting on the nightstand; he drinks in great gulps before stumbling to the basin to clean his teeth and wash his face. He is fighting through the fog of memory. The vision of Gibson’s dead glare keeps assaulting his senses, intercepting with any other image invoked: Jopson’s kiss, the two of them moving together, his palm in his, his nocturnal wanderings, the discovery of the body, a search through darkened rooms, and the cellar, the glow.

His head shoots up.

Le Vesconte called for Jopson before Edward lost his senses.

“Shit,” he hisses, and starts running in his socked feet, not even checking if he has his weapons on his person, because if Jopson is in danger or injured, he will kill whoever hurt him with his bare hands and his teeth. He runs through the hush of the cold hallway. The blue lights of the morn’ lay on the floor. Nothing moves; nothing breathes; the stillness of the house is eerie after the tumult of the night. It is like a baited breath: an inhale before a scream.

He thumps on Jopson’s door with a fist and jostles the knob. The door is locked; he pushes against it with his shoulder repeatedly until it rattles in its frame. The most violent ideas besiege him: Jopson in place of Gibson; he is ready to run off and check the hall when he finally hears movement from inside and stills, heaving.

Jopson peeks out, hair tousled and eyes bleary. “Come in,” he mumbles. “You’ll wake everybody.”

“Oh, you live!” Edward sighs, so relieved he could kiss him. He steps into the very room where it was revealed why he should never taste Jopson’s lips again. Coming to his senses, he feels embarrassed to espy the unmade bed, the blanket kicked off; the door was locked and the curtains are closed. He clearly inconvenienced Jopson in his worry and roused him from sleep. He turns to him to apologise, and finds that he is in naught but a nightshirt, a dressing gown hastily thrown over it. Jopson crosses his hands over his chest to hide it, and glares at Edward from under the wild mess of his locks.

“You must have questions,” he says.

Edward manages to force out “Pardon me for intruding _”_ and a pathetic bow to go with it. Jopson waves it away, and gestures at the gilded sofa in a nook. Edward shuffles there, head bent, and attempts to shield the swell of his cock with his coat.

Jopson’s legs are long and naked, well-toned, with a soft covering of hair. He crosses his knees as he sits in the armchair facing Edward, his nightshirt riding up his thigh. Edward quickly averts his gaze, fixing it on the table before him. There are burnt candles on it, used cigarettes, a pack of painted cards and a board with the alphabet, numbers, _goodbye, no_ and _yes_.

“Any luck yesterday?” he asks.

“Not much, I’m afraid,” Jopson says. His morning voice is barely a rasp, making his accent more evident. He clears his throat, and goes on. “I went to the cellar after securing you and hearing Le Vesconte’s report—don’t look so alarmed, I had Mr. Irving for company; I found no trace of spiritual activity, which delighted my companion infinitely… but it befuddles me… such strange lights, and not a trace of ectoplasm! The planchette moved, but all it showed me was gibberish.” He slumps back in the armchair, still hugging himself. “What you see there is my sorrysome attempt to connect to Mr. Gibson.”

“What did he say?”

“Not a thing. He must’ve passed over the veil already. I couldn't reach him.” He rubs at his eyes. They are still sunken and red-rimmed, a tired bluish-green in the scarce light.

“I should leave you to rest,” Edward says softly.

Neither of them move.

“I won’t sleep well for a good while,” Jopson mutters. “I usually don’t see the corpse. It’s terrible; I don’t know how you put up with it—a ruined body with no spirit—so utterly _empty_.”

“I’m used to death,” Edward says. It’s not true; not entirely. What happened to Gibson is frightening, for it looked deliberate: there was no element of hunger, a need to protect, or rabid mania. He had been _displayed_.

“I was quite worried for you,” Jopson says silently, looking at Edward’s hands, where they rest on the table. “To find you collapsed—I thought the worst, if only for a second.”

“I’m sorry to have frightened you.”

“Mr. Little, as you were unconscious, you’re clearly not to fault.”

“Even so.”

Jopson glances up at him, then quickly away. He adjusts an errant strand of hair, then runs his fingers through the entire mess. His dark hair is like silk; Edward misses the caress of it already.

“When I saw you,” Jopson says, addressing the soft glow of the room, so unlike those unnatural shadows. “When I saw you on the floor, quite lifeless, and carried your dead weight upstairs with Mr. Le Vesconte’s help, I thought—oh, Mr. Little, I could only think how cruel I’ve been to you!”

“Don’t say that,” Edward says, standing up. His passion surprises even him: but he will not have Jopson accuse himself. “That’s not true. You have been cautious, and rightly so. You have told me nothing but the truth.”

“The truth is cruel,” Jopson says, glancing up at him again. The naked emotion in his eyes is more intimate than the glimpse of his neck and collarbones the nightshirt allows. Edward cannot bear to look: he strides to the window, trying to collect himself. “If you really were dead,” Jopson goes on, “my last words would’ve been for you to leave me: I would’ve banished you from my company eternally—and I don’t want you to leave; Mr. Little, I don’t want to part ways; I wish our relations could be repaired. I’ve grown fond of your company already; to lose it, entirely—no, that would be unthinkable.”

“Your fondness is mistaken,” Edward says, turning to him. He wants Jopson to see the look on his face, and remember it: the shame and the earnestness. “I haven’t been honest with you.”

“I should think I know your secrets.”

“Not all.” Edward paces back; when he reaches Jopson’s armchair, he collapses, going down on his knees as if he were in a Catholic confessional. He offers his hand. “Read my palm again. The lifeline: you haven’t looked at that.”

Jopson places his hand in Edward’s, makes him curl his fingers, close his fist. He squeezes it; his gaze searches Edward’s, and once they lock eyes, Edward cannot help a wretched whimper. He buries his face between Jopson’s knees, who caresses his nape, whispers, “I would much rather you told me yourself, Mr. Little; I do think I know more than you give me credit for.” His hand travels; he strokes his whiskers, lifts his chin. Looks into his eyes again as he makes him open his mouth, sliding a thumb in as he gently pushes at his upper lip. “What big teeth you have,” he says softly.

“It was an accident,” Edward says. It is important to let Jopson know: that he did not seek out this fate, like some do.

“I suspect what you are,” Jopson says, “but you must tell me how it happened.”

“I was a boy,” Edward recounts, holding onto Jopson’s gaze as he pleads, _do not resent me_. “I’m one of eleven. We lived in a manor near the woods. My parents loved me; loved me so they would indulge me, and let me sleep in the stable, for I am quite fond of horses: they’re graceful and noble creatures. When I was three and ten, my father gifted me with a beautiful bay. An Andalusian; I was starting to get big enough for one. I begged to sleep in the stable. I was, indeed, old enough to do so unchaperoned: I was the happiest little boy in my own kingdom made of hay.” He licks his lips; runs his tongue over his teeth until it catches on the canine. “That evening,” he says, “a full moon was rising. I remember the yellow of it, burning through the planks. I thought it beautiful. I cannot bear its sight now.

“The wolf came in a man’s skin. It hasn’t turned yet. The evening had just begun. It circled the stables, dragging its long limbs. I remember the odd set of its head. The yellow of its eyes. It could smell my birthday horse from a mile away. I was too frightened to even scream. It tried to reason with me. It could _speak_. It wanted to feast on my horse. Promised not to harm me, if I let it. I wouldn’t. So it hurt me, and killed my horse. It didn’t bite me. I’ve been clawed. I don’t turn into a wolf when moonlight touches me, but I can change my skin at will. The first symptoms I noticed weren’t frightening. My senses got sharper. I could see in the dark reasonably well. Then I grew older, and it worsened. There’s a beast within me. It hungers. It wants me to do the worst kind of things, but I don’t listen to it. I left my family to put them out of harm’s way. I’ve been wandering ever since.”

“Hunting the very things,” Jopson says softly, “you cannot allow yourself to be.” He reaches for Edward’s hand again; he watches him uncurl his fingers, trace a caress before he gently tugs at a silver ring, on his little finger. Edward bites his lips so he will not hiss. The scars and bruises are revealed.

“Silver doesn’t kill me,” Edward says, “but it burns, when I cannot control my second nature; so I do control it; I do; but that doesn’t change the facts—Mr. Jopson, I’m a monster. I don’t deserve your fondness. Asking for it has been nothing but selfish.”

Jopson slides the ring back, then laces their fingers. He puts his forehead to Edward’s. If he were a better man, he would pull back; but he is a starved, wretched thing, so he clings to this kindness. He will close his jaw around any sort of sympathy. Sink his teeth in it.

“I don’t think my fondness is misplaced,” Jopson says, “and I’m the one to make that judgement—a judgment which is now well-informed. I cannot be yours, but it’s not because of who you are, which you cannot control. It’s what you’ll decide to do.” He squeezes his hand. “I cannot risk that: but if I could, I would give myself over—I’d be yours, Mr. Little; admire you like a lover would; I’d be devoted, caring and faithful.”

“I deserve no such spouse,” Edward mutters, pulling back to look at their joined hands. “I don’t deserve you.”

“As I stated: I shall be the judge of that. Until the future settles, I want us to be friends.” He pulls back, straightens up in the armchair. He looks like one of the painted pictures on his cards: the Magician. Edward bows his head to swear his loyalty, kisses his knuckles. Jopson cups his face, guides him up: Edward stands, hands braced on the chair’s armrest, looming over Jopson.

“May I greet you as a friend?” he asks. “I’d kiss your cheeks, and take my leave.”

“You may; only save a kiss for my lips, if you will: to kiss your almost-lover farewell.”

Edward grunts his assent and bends; brushes his lips over the beauty mark on Jopson’s cheek, kisses the other, breathing in the scent of his sleep-warm skin. He hesitates before claiming his lips: but he cannot resist.

Jopson tastes like ashes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Content warnings** (chapter 1): clearly unhealthy amount of alcohol and cigarettes consumed | toxic relationship (Hickey/Gibson) with period-typical downplaying of the matter | minor self-harm implied | Jopson and Edward have a very Victorian understanding of when/how a relationship is consummated | exasperatedly implied period-typical homophobia (which only manifests in Edward having to worry about public display of affection)  
>  **horror spoilers:** ~~blood, hanging by ankles~~
> 
> *puts flashlight under chin* See you next Friday! It feels good to be back on my bullshit and writing penny dreadfuls. If you have any questions about the fic, don't be scared to hmu!
> 
> My eternal gratitude goes to [@ktula](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ktula), who enabled me immensely during the writing process and betad the fic for me; check out their fics as a treat! 🖤
> 
> If you're enjoying _Cold Sweat_ so far, please consider a [reblog](https://longstoryshortikilledhim.tumblr.com/post/621996464488497152/cold-sweat-13-a-terror-monster-hunter-fic-e) / [retweet](https://twitter.com/forautumniam/status/1276525496248029184) 🥀
> 
> Now with gorgeous **art** by @amatlapal on a [tumblr](https://amatlapal.tumblr.com/post/635817222854574080/sketches-based-on-longstoryshortikilledhim-s) / [twitter](https://twitter.com/amatlapal/status/1331806690212196352)!🖤


	2. It Continues

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please refer to the end notes for **content warnings**

William Gibson’s funeral is a grim business. Having the family present is always the hardest, yet Edward almost wishes they were there, so Gibson would not be mourned by strangers. A lone grave awaits him, and no coffin. Hickey takes it upon himself to carry the dead man there. He cradles him like a bride as they march through the morning mist slowly. Edward takes off his hat; so do the rest of the mourners. Irving waits by a cross he fashioned. 

“Thou knowest, Lord, the secrets of our hearts,” he recites. “Shut not thy merciful ears to our prayer; but spare us, Lord most holy, O God most mighty, O holy and merciful Saviour, thou most worthy Judge eternal, suffer us not, at our last hour, for any pains of death, to fall from thee.” 

Edward murmurs an amen; even Jopson whispers it, next to him. It is only polite. Hickey steps into the grave, a fall, but not too deep. Edward glances away as he lays the body to rest. Notices that Crozier is looking away too, staring at the horizon. The sea is obscured by the mist, but they can hear it. It is like someone breathing. 

“We commend unto thy hands of mercy, most merciful Father, the soul of this, our brother, William Gibson departed, and we commit his body to the ground, earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.” Irving kneels to take a fistful of dark soil; he casts it into the grave. Hickey stands with his neck craned, eyes closed, as the dirt rains down. “We beseech thine infinite goodness to give us grace to live in thy fear and love and to die in thy favour.” 

Hickey opens his eyes. He reaches a gloved hand to Irving. “Help a man up.”

Irving obliges. Only the flare of his nostrils betray emotion, the set of his brows: fear and disgust. 

❦

“I never have an appetite at wakes,” Hodgson complains while loading his plate with sombre little sandwiches. 

Edward frowns at him. “How many funerals do _you_ go to?” 

“Quite a few, in fact,” Hodgson says with an edge of wounded pride. 

“Didn’t know fairies were such murderous bastards.” 

“They’re very particular about rules of conduct, and in many fae-cultures capital punishment is observed…”

Edward tunes out the rest. He looks for a place to sit in the parlour, notices that most guests elected to stand, so he follows suit, holding his plate, eyes lingering on Jopson as Hodgson drones on. Jopson, of course, is the only one who thought of packing full mourning. He looks so well it is almost a sacrilege. He stands near a vase of lilies in his embroidered velvet cape, expressing his sympathies to a member of the household. Edward strains his ears to overhear, just to find comfort in his voice; but Irving is too loud. 

“...vulgar,” he snaps, and stands up from the divan occupied by Hickey. Hickey is still in the purple waistcoat he wore to the funeral, with a black band affixed around his arm. The effects of Gibson’s brutal death mostly show on his hair, which is uncombed and slick, tucked behind his ears. The monocle remains and the smile too as he watches Irving storm to the cellarette. Irving shoulders Crozier in his haste to pour himself some gin; Crozier makes a face and steps away. Irving throws back the drink, points the empty glass at the room. “How long,” he raises his voice, “will this charade carry on?” 

Edward sighs, setting his drink aside. Starts inching towards the cellarette before Irving embarrasses himself any further. 

“What charade?” Hickey prompts, sounding much amused. 

“We all know what happened,” Irving says. He tactfully steps away from Edward, dances to the middle of the room. 

“Do enlighten me,” says Hickey, but Irving is not paying attention to him. He turns around, looking for a sympathetic face. 

He seems to find it in Fitzjames; he pleads with him, “The house is not haunted.” 

“It’s too early to say;” Fitzjames placates, “Mr. Jopson couldn’t report anything conclusive.”

“It _isn’t_ ,” Irving says. He runs a hand through his hair; looks a mess as he turns around again. “There is nothing preternatural here. We’ve been set up, I say!” 

“We all had a rather emotional—” Hodgson attempts, but Irving silences him with a bitter laugh. 

“There are no emotions involved,” he says, “just the cold calculations of a sick mind!” He toasts Hickey, who points at himself, comically confused. 

“Come now, John,” Edward murmurs. His face burns as he approaches him again; he despises being at the centre of so much attention, but this cannot go on. Irving walks backwards, which makes Edward halt. He is not going to chase him.

That always ends ugly. 

He beckons him with a tilt of his head, pleading. 

“Name one thing,” Irving says, voice a tremble, “a single thing about Mr. Gibson’s death that could not have been done by a mortal man!” 

“You know what I saw in the cellar,” Edward says, very even, “now calm yourself at once.” 

“You saw lights!” Irving says. “The simplest trickery—” 

“What do you propose happened, then?” Hickey bites back; his voice is sharp, but not raised. He leans back in the divan, keeping his gaze on Irving. There is something mesmerising in the way he raises his hands, white and toughened. “That I have murdered my own Billy, who was very dear to me, for the entertainment of you gentlemen?” 

“Sin needs an audience,” Irving says. 

Hickey puts up his chin, regarding him. “In my experience, it happens in private.”

Irving flushes; turns away from Hickey, addressing the room again, eyes wild and voice strained. “That’s crime! Crime, wickedness, human failure, all our lapses and misconduct: we hide it in shame—but sin! Mr. Hickey, I’m talking of sin!” He spins back to him. “Sin is theatrics; it indulges in attention, to marvel at its own wrongs; and it must be punished just as plainly; so we burned the witches; here in England you only hanged them, but where I am from, brave Scotland, they were burned and _we_ were purged!”

Hickey rises to his feet. 

“Not for nothing,” Le Vesconte interjects, “but if all of this is Mr. Hickey’s deceit, I _must_ know how he does that to the paintings.” 

Edward turns to the still life hanging above the table. White dots, corrupting the idyll, eating away at the fruits. 

It did not look like this yesterday.

“What of it?” Irving says, perturbed. 

“It started snowing,” Le Vesconte says, “on all of the paintings, since we arrived.” He raises a biscuit from his plate and takes a bite. “Most unusual.” 

Edward glares at the painting then tears away his gaze, disturbed. He seeks out Jopson, who regards it with his head tilted. The only man not looking is Crozier: he is peering out of the window, the decanter of whisky dangling from his fingers. 

“It could be—” Irving argues, but Le Vesconte interrupts.

“Please do not suggest that Mr. Hickey goes around at night painting over all of them; I know what it means when objects—misbehave.” He wipes his mouth on a sleeve. “There is something, or someone, in this house they do not recognise, and who or which has enough power to influence them. Art and clocks are the first to go wrong, because they are the most delicate objects. They change; _adapt_. I suggest we do what Mr. Hickey entrusted us with, and investigate before the looking glasses turn. You would not enjoy meeting your reflection, Father.” 

Irving scowls at him; Le Vesconte does not look. He offers his hand to Gore, who takes it readily, beaming, brave. “Lead the way!” 

Hickey sits back into his seat. 

❦

Edward stands in the hallway with his neck craned. He would like to meet the man who would climb all those stairs with a house full of guests; the one who would drag the lifeless body of his victim all this way just for a sickening display.

He remembers the marks on the cellar’s steps.

Gibson was fighting his fate, teeth and nail. 

“Mr. Little, I would like to ask a favour.” 

He turns to Jopson, offers a weak smile. Jopson seems like a beam of sunlight in a house shadowed by grief. 

“For you, anything.” 

Jopson flushes, adjusts his hair. He has a box tucked under his arm: he lifts it. “I need someone to help guide the planchette on the spirit board; someone grounded and not particularly occult.” 

“You have found an eager candidate: I’m somewhat of a supernatural pedestrian.” With that, Edward steps up to him. It is the smell he cannot resist. He wants to lean in and inhale. Lilies: Jopson’s hair picked up the fragrance. A poisonous smell. It reminds him of the mortal danger they are trifling with every minute they spend in each other’s company. The lure of it. They lock gazes a moment too long before Jopson turns on his heels and leads the way upstairs. 

“It will be just a quick reading,” Jopson says. “To be perfectly honest, I’m somewhat reluctant to open the board again. I’m frustrated with myself for being unable to reach Mr. Gibson, or talk to the thing in the cellar; but I kept thinking about it after you left...I had to distract myself…” He adjusts his hair again. “Maybe my readings were confused because I was too close to the source of activity; like a compass near a magnet.”

“That’s possible,” Edward says, hiding his smile that Jopson needed distraction. He surveys his pert arse in the tight black trousers as they take the next flight of stairs, then disciplines himself. Not as if Gibson would judge him for it—and it is quite natural, that after a funeral one wants—one _needs—_ to feel like part of the living. If only he could clasp Jopson in his embrace without dooming him! He would strip him of his mourning, lick his lily-skin, gnaw, nibble, suck, bruise him like a petal, mark Jopson his. 

“Mr. Irving and I investigated several rooms on the second floor that looked abandoned,” Jopson says, “and Mr. Armitage confirmed they’ve been out of use since Mr. Hickey took up residence here; which is fortunate, because we need a room with no lingering energies to confuse the reading. Just this way.” 

Edward follows him into a room where dusty white sheets cover the furniture, and the carpet is rolled up. The chandelier hangs uselessly, and the paintings are darkened—only that macabre snow shines on them; even in this remote room, the art _adapted_. A chill runs through Edward. He turns away, and notices a pianoforte. The lid is open. 

“Just sit on the ground, if you don’t mind,” Jopson advises, settling down. The stone floor is freezing cold; the room unheated; Edward can see his breath. Jopson huffs with determination as he unfolds the wooden board with the alphabet, sets it in the middle. His brows are furrowed. 

“It will work,” Edward says in reassurance. “You’re capable.” 

Jopson smiles at him weakly. “I hope it will; I don’t want to have a séance. It doesn’t seem safe.” He peers over his shoulder. 

It feels like they are being watched. 

“How long have you been talking to ghosts?” Edward prompts to set Jopson’s mind at ease. 

“I was five. The winter after my Da died; pneumonia. He came to see me one last time.” He rubs his nose. Edward wants to apologise for the uncomfortable topic, or offer his condolences, but Jopson has a fond smile on his face as he remembers. “I had a doll, my only toy, and I locked his spirit in it. I didn’t want him to leave; he was glad to stay; and Ma didn’t mind me talking to the doll as if it were Da, for grieving would make any child do that. He was the first to call me son; and when I asked him to name me again, he named me Thomas. A gift of a name from beyond the grave...it’s only as I got slightly older that my abilities began to burden me. Not all ghosts are kind like my Da, you see; anger, revenge and desperation makes them stay much more often than fondness. I was seven when I noticed Da getting weaker...it tired him to linger; so I set his ghost free; but with that, I lost my spirit guide.” He swallows, hard, and blinks. 

Edward reaches for his hand, which rests on the spirit board. Squeezes it in sympathy. “Mr. Crozier told me your mother took you to the Society of Terror.” 

“Oh, yes,” Jopson says, brightening a little; his joy fades as he repeats, “Yes...that was after the sleepless nights...the voices kept me up; the shadows on the walls; apparitions...scratching, screaming, mumbling; I was lucky she found Captain Crozier...at a completely unrelated private event, in fact, for, ah, people struggling with addiction, a penitent band… Ma could find no-one to mind me so she took me with; I kept complaining about the man in the thirteenth chair, but no one was there: they had lost a member...Captain Crozier heard me describe his mannerisms so vividly he was convinced I could really see him, so I was introduced to the school of spiritualism under his patronage. They, ah. They blinded me.”

“Blinded you?” Edward blurts. Jopson nods, takes his hand back with a caress. Pokes at the board. 

“My Seeing Eye, you understand—I can no longer perceive the invisible world, just what’s present. I’m glad they did it; for spiritualists who keep their sight end up in asylums; you cannot bear seeing all that death: it would drive you mad. So I need aids now to talk with ghosts.” 

Edward looks at the unassuming letters, burned into the board with black. Touches the curve of S, then H, I, P; a question mark is drawn with his nails. Jopson chuckles, softly, sadly. “That was quite something. It shouldn’t have happened. I’d seen no ghosts for years, and then a barque tore through the fog with a hundred dead sailors crawling up the riggings. I was paralysed with fear, and lay catatonic for three days. Captain Crozier blamed himself, of course. It used to be his ship, you see; it’s haunting him, whenever he’s at sea... Hauntings are violent things: even those with no spiritual abilities may perceive them, but they are relatively rare.” He takes Edward’s hand again. “I dearly hope it’s not a haunting we face,” he says.

“You’re not alone in that,” Edward says, thinking of Crozier: his whisky; how he keeps glancing at the sea. He strokes Jopson’s knuckles. “Tell me how to help.” 

Jopson brushes his thumb against the side of Edward’s hand. If they could caress each other proper, Edward would know how to console: he would shower Jopson in admiration, praise his bravery in a thousand kisses, thank him for his trust with a worshipful tongue. He has no hope to express his love, respect and gratitude to their full extent. What a pitiful substitute of a favour it is, to get hold of the planchette, move it around how Jopson shows. 

“But you must keep your hand very still,” Jopson explains, “and resist its tremble as best you can. If something pushes at it, let it; and help me spell out the message, if something is said—sometimes it happens rather fast.” 

Edward nods his understanding. He can only focus at Jopson’s strong, capable fingers over the planchette. Jopson knocks on the board, as polite as if he seeks to enter a room. 

“Good morning, sir,” he says in a pleasant tone. “I’m a spiritualist; I cannot give you my name, I’m afraid, but I am here to talk and listen. My friend and I seek your advice, sir. We lost a life. Is Mr. Gibson with us?” 

The planchette is still. 

“May I ask how many ghosts are in the room?” 

Edward feels a pull: the planchette slides across the board, although he is fairly certain none of them moved their hands. It lands on the number _one_. Jopson’s face brightens up: he peers at Edward. His hair had fallen forward, and his eyes shine, pale blue in the dim light.

“You’re much more direct than yesterday, sir. I’m afraid I couldn’t catch your meaning. Did we talk yesterday?” 

The planchette slides across to _no_. 

“Oh,” Jopson breathes. “I see. Where are you, sir? It’d help me greatly if I could locate where you are presently standing or hovering.”

The planchette moves so fast it seems to tremble; Edward mouths the letters, I-M-H-I-D-I-N-G. 

“Why are you hiding, sir?” 

I-M-S-C-A-R-E-D-P-L-E-A-S-E-H-E-L-P-I-W-I-L-L-B-E-F-O-U-N-D

Jopson looks up. “I don’t like that,” he whispers.

Edward’s heart sinks. He misses the first few letters; as he glances back, the board spells L-P-M-E-C-L-I-M-B-O-U-T-O-F-T-H-E-W-A-L-L

He cannot help but recoil; his fingers slide off the planchette, which begins to go around in wild loops. He grabs for it; Jopson pulls it forcefully over _goodbye_. It twitches under his fingers like some captured insect, but Jopson’s hand is steady.

“I’m awfully sorry,” Edward says.

“No need; I didn’t like that at _all_.” Jopson sits back on his heels, and chews at his lips. 

“It said one ghost,” Edward recounts, trying to gather his racing senses. The planchette is still, the board closed; the only movement is the dance of dust in the ray of the sun. 

“Which begs the question,” Jopson says, “what it is hiding from.” 

Edward swallows. His mouth is dry and tastes of the rising bile of fear. “Can’t you ask?” 

“That’s where it gets tricky, Mr. Little: if a ghost can access the board, so can that other thing; and through the board and me, it might escape.”

There is a rattle; Edward jumps to his feet, shoulders raised. He looks around, at the peeling wallpaper, the damaged stones beneath. 

Something moves within. 

He starts circling around Jopson with slow, creaking steps, shielding him with his body from an invisible enemy as he reaches for his silver knife. Jopson remains seated, calm and patient. He surveys the room with his head tilted, gaze shifting from the shadowed corners to the white sheets over the furniture. 

“It’s a shame,” he says, “He was being chatty.” 

A single note is plucked; Edward spins to the pianoforte, staring at it as the note resonates, a C, and then sound rains down as the keys move up to G, a grave sonata he recognises. 

He had heard it yesterday.

It was not Hodgson playing. 

“We must call for help,” he says urgently, pulls Jopson to his feet, who is regarding the pianoforte with a squint. 

“That’s quite an accomplished poltergeist,” he remarks as Edward half-hauls him away, a protective arm around his slender waist.

The pianoforte keeps playing.

❦

“Well, there’s nothing wrong with it that I can see,” Le Vesconte announces his judgement, pushing up his goggles. He is lying under the now gutted instrument, a screwdriver in hand and a damper hook behind his ear. 

“Apart from the fact that it plays by itself,” Edward grumbles, pacing the room. The spirit board is where they left it: he takes care to avoid it. Jopson and Gore sit on a covered sofa; Gore is sipping on his tea, the taking of which Edward had rudely interrupted, and Jopson is serenely holding a wooden bowl with burning sage. 

“I won't deny that's unusual,” Le Vesconte clarifies, “but it’s not possessed—Mr. Jopson, are we in agreement?”

“Certainly,” Jopson says. “I just wanted to have it examined.”

“Our little case is getting stranger and stranger,” Gore notes. “Were you able to clarify whose ghost it was?” 

“He was too terrified to reveal himself.”

“What would frighten a ghost so?”

“I was hoping you could help me determine.” 

“There shouldn’t be a ghost here,” Edward interjects. The comment is pointless, he is well aware; but it needs to be said, he needs to _say it_ or else he will howl his fear. He has never met a ghost before: a bodiless presence—no warmth, no scent; it makes his hair stand on end. He keeps glancing at the walls. There is a faint sound coming from them, like a trapped mouse. 

Something is scraping at the stones from within. 

“I’m quite baffled there’s not _more_ ,” Jopson confesses. “Grand house like this: all the servants, the family; walls like this see a fair amount of death; and it’s near water, let’s not forget that: an ideal spot for spiritual activity.” 

“I thought of Rawheadandbloodybones,” Gore says, “because they’re drawn to water; but I checked all the cupboards, and there’s not a single claw mark, or loose teeth; most strange.” 

Le Vesconte scoffs, dusts his hands. “You’re the only man I know who’s disappointed when his wardrobe is not filled with rotting parts of the body.” 

“Call it habit,” Gore says mildly, smiling into his tea. Edward helps Le Vesconte up, who stretches and looks around. 

“Your new friend, Mr. Jopson, mentioned walls, yes?” 

“He appears to be trapped inside.” 

The scratching gets louder. 

“I should take a look with Dundy,” Gore says. “I wouldn’t be surprised, not at all, if we found bone dust in the mortar, or if the house was built atop a graveyard. Do you have copper rods I could borrow to read the energies surrounding the place?” 

“I should come with,” Jopson says and rises readily. Edward gnaws on his tongue to bite back a bark: he would growl at him to sit, stay, heel, but Jopson is not some gullible pup; Edward cannot protect him from the perils of his profession—he only wishes he could—because something is scratching at the walls and it sounds like bones—

“Would your presence not aggravate the ghost?” Gore muses. “He sounds like he’s all too eager to talk to you.” 

“We should tell him to shut up at once,” Edward grumbles, dark. Le Vesconte arches a brow and Gore regards him curiously. Edward tilts his head to the wall, then says, “Ah. You can’t hear it, huh.” 

“Huntsmen have such trained ears,” Jopson interjects swiftly, stepping up to Edward. The sage has all burnt down. He passes him the bowl with a reassuring smile, turns back to Gore and Le Vesconte. “You are right, gentlemen; I should keep the veil closed until we have a better idea what might come through it; I’m beginning to suspect that the reason I couldn’t connect to Mr. Gibson’s ghost is because he’s been scared off.”

❦

Edward and Jopson go to the sun-soaked parlour. After Jopson makes a circle of salt around an armchair and sits, he lights a cigarette. The ember of it reflects in his eyes, a flash of orange in green. He seems lost in thought, his movements jittery as he pockets his matches. Edward understands the frustration: to be on the verge of mystery, and have vigilance hold you back—not knowing yet if you’ll be facing a lone wolf or a pack. 

Edward lowers himself on the divan near, gets his pipe, but does not light it. “I wanted to thank you,” he says while fiddling with it, “for protecting me.” 

Jopson taps on his nose. “Your secrets are safe with me, Mr. Little—which is quite something, considering that I’m a terrible gossip.” 

“Would you mind if I kept you company?” 

“Not at all; your presence is most reassuring.” He reaches out, and after a moment’s hesitation scratches Edward’s ear. Edward leans into his touch, eyes falling shut. It feels nice to be caressed thus: no one has ever been gentle with the beast within. “Isn’t it odd,” Jopson says, “how secure I feel with you, when I _know_ what you will do?”

Edward kisses the inside of Jopson’s wrist in apology. He can feel his heart beating. He will do anything to guard its healthy rhythm; prove destiny wrong. He slips off a ring, the one on his little finger; slides it on Jopson’s pointer on his right hand. 

“There,” he says. “Ghosts don’t like silver either.” 

“Won’t it hurt when I touch you?” 

“Do you plan to touch me much?” 

Jopson sinks his fingers into Edward’s whiskers in answer, tilting up his head. “I think good pets should be well-caressed,” he says, “and you’ve been exemplary.” 

If Edward had a tail, he would wag it; at present, he just nuzzles into Jopson’s palm, which is pleasantly warm, demanding more of his touch. Jopson obliges while taking a drag of his cigarette; its smoke smells, faintly, of mugwort. Edward finds comfort in the cleansing scent and rests his head on Jopson’s shoulder while he keeps stroking his whiskers. He looks up lazily, and is faced with the painting of the still life.

It is entirely snowed in now. 

The door creaks open, admitting Captain Crozier. 

“Don’t mind me,” he says, and makes his way to the cellarette. His faded frock coat hangs around his shoulders like a cape, obscuring his frame. He is a tall man, but worry makes him look smaller: he carries himself as if he was weighed down by a heavy burden. The decanter clicks against the glass; it makes Edward flinch. He watches him pour a far too generous serving.

“Shoddy weather,” Jopson remarks on the tone of a man who was never caught caressing a fellow. Edward affects calm and lights his pipe at once while Crozier peers out of the window. It opens to a blind landscape: all is grey. 

“Don’t even remind me,” he mutters. Sets his weight against the cellarette, taking a swig of his drink before he goes on. “It’s rotten. If this fog doesn’t lift soon, I know not what will become of us. We have no way to signal the shore.” 

“Do you think we might be in danger?” Edward asks, then adds, “More than usual.”

Crozier’s direct gaze shifts to him. It is not clouded by drink: his eyes have a terrible sharpness. “I’m alarmed, yes,” he says. 

The door opens again; Fitzjames saunters forth in a bravado of striped trousers and a deep blue frock. “There you are,” he says, and adds, “You should curb that for now.” 

“On the contrary: when else would I drain my glass?” Crozier takes a long sip as if to prove a point; watching his throat work is painful. _That’s a man_ , Edward thinks, _who doesn’t even enjoy his drink_.

“How many?” Fitzjames asks, turning to Jopson; he acknowledges Edward with a curt nod. 

“First serving I counted,” Jopson says. 

Fitzjames seems genuinely relieved. “Savour it, dear,” he advises Crozier. “That should be your last one for today.” 

“We lost a man,” Crozier rasps. “I swore I would not lose anyone again.” 

“I understand; I do; but I need you sharp, Francis. The trap is closing.” 

Crozier shakes himself and walks to the window, taking his usual spot. The cold light cuts him a sharp profile, and Edward quotes by heart: _and through the drifts the snowy clifts did send a dismal sheen: nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken—the ice was all between._

“Have you figured out what trick is being played, Mr. Fitzjames?” Edward asks, even as he keeps his eyes trained on Crozier. 

A ghost ship, Jopson said— 

“As I’ve been struck down by hubris before, let me just say that I’m reasonably certain of _one_ thing, if not the _other;_ not just yet. But enough of my personal failures; I ran into Dundy on the way here, and he told me about your recent acquaintance, Mr. Jopson. Be careful. I will have a request to make very soon, but do not address the deceased just yet. He’s our key witness: it’s important that his confession includes all the details we need, and that we...all hear it.” He catches Edward’s eye, and gives him a brief wink. 

Edward adjusts his collar and busies himself with his pipe. 

Years of keeping his shameful identity hidden, and now all of a sudden—

Damn this house. 

They are stuck here, yes; and it is unraveling all their secrets. 

“Say, Captain Crozier,” he says, tone kept conversational as he talks around his pipe, “do you happen to know a Mr. Coleridge?” 

“Do I ever,” Crozier mutters, giving one last glare at the fog before he steps away from the window. He passes his unfinished glass to Fitzjames, who smiles at him smugly. “Never go drinking with poets. They twist your tales quite unfavorably. ‘Ancient’, my arse.”

❦

Gibson’s absence is acutely felt at lunch. Diggle must have cooked his feelings, for the table is richly laid with buttered potatoes, honey’d meat and boiled vegetables. Armitage goes around with old bottles of fine Hungarian wine, but no one is in the mood to partake. The man is no match for Gibson’s training: he sloshes the water when he refills Edward’s glass, and drops the cutlery when he takes his empty plate. Hickey takes no issue with him: he is engaged in conversation with Irving, who sits near and mostly just listens to Hickey’s chatter, jaw set and eyes downcast. 

“I say,” Le Vesconte notes when the dessert is served: meringues and poached pears, “Graham doesn’t know what he’s missing.” 

Edward glances at his empty chair.

“Perhaps he didn’t hear the bell,” Jopson offers. “What sorry friends we are: we should’ve sent for him.” 

“Don’t take it to heart, Mr. Jopson; he’s often late, especially when he’s engaged in his work.” Le Vesconte picks up a meringue, and gestures Armitage over. “Could you please remind Mr. Gore that his company is expected? I saw him last heading to the garden.” 

Armitage hurries away with a bow. 

“The garden?” Jopson asks. “In this weather?” 

“To examine the grounds,” Le Vescone offers. “I doubt he can see anything in this fog, however; maybe the Lantern Man.” 

Jopson responds with a polite chuckle. Edward bites into a meringue carefully; it crumbles under his teeth and melts away, leaves a too-sweet taste. The mention of their business makes him uneasy: the walls seem to close in, the pattern of the silk papers too loud, almost offensive, and the scraping of the cutlery on porcelain reminds him of the ghost clawing from within, trying to escape. He chews obediently, forcing down more sweets until he is quite sick with it. 

When Armitage returns, he is pale like death. He stands in the door, wordless for a moment. 

Gore is not with him. 

“I think,” he says, his gaze jumping between Hickey and the guests, “I think there’s been an accident.” 

Le Vesconte jumps from his seat and rushes out; Edward follows, keeping his eyes on Jopson, to ensure he is safe. They are running with all their strength, as if they could outrun death. Le Vesconte yanks the gate open: a November gale rushes in, blood-chilling. The fog is all-encompassing. 

“Mind how you go,” Blanky reminds them. Le Vesconte does not heed him: he takes the steps by two, and disappears from Edward’s sight, swallowed by the fog. He reaches for Jopson’s hand who intertwines their fingers, looking ahead, unseeing. 

A shout rings in the air. It is an inarticulate yell; the cry of sickened grief. Edward follows it, deeper and deeper into the fog, pulling Jopson along. 

He needs to be brave now.

His instinct is to run. 

Even the wolf in his muscles, that undaunted creature, strains him to flee. He carries on resolutely, shields Jopson with his body as two silhouettes enfold. Le Vesconte is on his knees, shaking violently, his hair hanging into his face; Gore is with him, sitting with his back to a barren tree, mouth open, looking up. A copper rod runs through his skull. Blood is dripping from it. 

Jopson lets go of Edward’s hand, steps closer. 

“He’s alive,” he says. 

The rod is pinning Gore to the sycamore tree. His clothes are torn and bloody. He is not moving. 

“Mr. Le Vesconte, check it, I can feel he lives,” Jopson says firmly. Le Vesconte fumbles for his watch, holds it to Gore’s nose. His breath fogs up the gold. 

Fitzjames steps out of the gloom, followed by Blanky and Crozier; they halt to stare as Edward turns away. 

He is going to be sick.

He cannot stand it. 

He looks into the fog. 

Mr. Hickey stands on top of the stairs. 

❦

They haul the body to his bedroom. The paintings on the walls are completely white now. 

“We need to get a doctor,” Le Vesconte says, arranging Gore’s stiff limbs with care. “I won’t wait for the ferryman, there must be a bloody boat somewhere, I’ll go myself.” 

“Not in this fog,” Crozier says, strict. He is hanging back at the entrance with Edward and Fitzjames while Jopson and Blanky examine the wounds. There are bleeding slashes over Gore’s chest. Five shallow cuts and mangled flesh. Gore’s ribcage expands, collapses. He is fighting for breath. “Even if we do, there’s not much use if the injury is of supernatural origin.” 

“Is it?” Le Vesconte asks sharply, regards Fitzjames. 

“I’ll contact Dr. Goodsir,” Crozier says. “I know you’re upset, Mr. Le Vesconte; which is why I advise you not to do anything in haste.” 

“And how much longer must we wait?” Le Vesconte gestures at Gore tearfully. “He lives by the minute!” 

“We can secure him,” Jopson says soothingly. His hands are bloody.

“‘Am quite an expert on puncture wounds,” Blanky adds. “And Mr. Jopson here knows a bit about nursing the ill.” 

Le Vesconte shakes his head, steps away from the bed. Crozier goes up to him; his feet are unsteady on the ground; he still walks like a sailor, steps too broad, and the effects of his drink must be felt. Regardless, he clasps Le Vesconte’s shoulders, who covers his mouth to prevent a sob. 

“We won’t lose him,” Crozier swears. “Not a soul more. I’ll send an albatross right away. Dr. Goodsir might arrive by tomorrow afternoon. The fog won’t last forever. Tell Mr. Gore he only has to linger on for a bit more, while we catch his attacker.”

Fitzjames pushes himself away from the doorframe, tips his chin to Edward. He is reluctant to leave Jopson to tend the wounds; but there is no use for him here. He follows Fitzjames, chilled.

What if the message is too late?

What if the fog never lifts? 

What if Dr. Goodsir will not be able to reach them? 

He dares not voice his fears, worried that Fitzjames might agree; that their hopelessness will be revealed as facts. He would much rather worry and fret. 

(Gore’s eyes are still open. Did he see the attacker? Is it visible?) 

“Mr. Little, I need your help,” Fitzjames says, marching ahead with a dark spark in his eyes.

“How may I assist?” 

“Let’s put it like this—I have heard hunger drives the wolf out of the woods.”

❦

Edward slams Hickey against the parlour’s wall. He laughs, even as his feet scramble for leverage. Edward is holding him up with a fist curled into his expensive shirt. 

“Cease the games, Mr. Hickey,” he growls. “Tell us all!” 

“But you saw.” Hickey grins, eyes bright with mirth behind the monocle. “You saw now what it does.”

“Let go of him,” Irving pleads. “This brutish behaviour will solve nothing!” 

“What will?” Edward barks. He drops Hickey unceremoniously, walks away shaking out his hand, as if he touched something unpleasant. Fitzjames sits on the divan smoking, observing the scene.

“I was wrong to accuse Mr. Hickey,” Irving says, flushed. “You can’t abuse a gentleman so!” 

“Can you vouch for him?” Edward grumbles. It does not escape his notice that Irving hurries to Hickey, who is righting his clothing. 

“I’m worried for the state of the investigation,” Hickey says while struggling with his ascot, “if your best guess is still your employer. You are experts of your field, are you not? I so hoped you would have answers for me by now. All the money I have wasted, and I’m none the wiser.” 

“He couldn’t have done this,” Irving interjects.

“What makes you so certain?”

Irving’s flush deepens. He reaches to fix Hickey’s ascot, then thinks better of it, turns to Edward. “If you must know,” he says “we spent the day together.” 

“Did you now?” Edward sets to fix himself a drink. His hands are shaking. 

Help is on the way.

It will be.

Won’t it? 

They will be rescued, even if the mystery is unsolved. 

They will be— 

“I assumed, wrongly, that he might be a demon,” Irving says, “or possessed by one, to be more exact, therefore a thorough examination was necessary.”

“I take it he turned out to be quite an incubus,” Edward notes. Irving’s silence speaks volumes. Edward actually needs a drink now. “Jesus Christ, John,” he mumbles, reaching for the decanter and emptying what is left of its contents. 

“Leave him out of this,” Irving says imperiously. “What I did or did not do is between me and the Lord.” 

Hickey scoffs and disguises it as a cough. He walks to the divan, gets a cigarette from a monogrammed silver case. Holds it up for Fitzjames to light. Edward observes every move he makes: the smug smile as Fitzjames strikes a match for him. The odd tilt of his head. The twist of his tongue inside his mouth. Fitzjames’ stoic face as he regards him, no longer amused or curious. He got what he wanted. 

“You spent every minute together?” Edward asks Irving, who refuses to look at him. 

“Yes.”

“Every second?” 

“I mean—” He bites his lips and blinks at the ceiling, hands clasped behind his back. “I had to visit a place.” 

“What place?”

“A place.”

Edward frowns. “The lavatory?” 

“I shall not disclose,” Irving quips, which is an answer again; he might have his problems, but at least he is transparent. Edward takes a swig, looks between Irving and Hickey, who is merrily smoking away while a guest of his lies in agony upstairs. 

“How many minutes?” 

“Edward! Really!”

“A rough estimate will suffice.” 

“You’ve left all your manners in Transylvania, I see,” Irving spits. “Mr. Hickey, I must apologise for my friend: he lives in the woods like a wild man, and no longer knows how to conduct himself in polite society; I’m quite ashamed.” He marches to the door, head held high; he gives a pitying look to Edward. “I wasn’t gone long enough,” he adds in a loud whisper, “for Mr. Hickey to leave for the garden. You’re barking up at the wrong tree. Maybe it’s not just manners you lost, but your good sense too. What will be left of you?” 

❦

Edward hides in his bedroom to lick his wounds. Irving’s words cut deeper than intended. He knows him: knows that he is in the habit of diverting his humiliation and shame at others, and sometimes, his friends suffer; but the accusations stick to Edward’s skin like mud and filth. Is it true? Is he becoming a brute? Is the animal self getting the better of him? 

He paces the shadowed room, sheds his coat. Clothes feel restrictive. The rug under his feet, the luxury of the place, the blank paintings: what a mockery; he does not belong here. He should go back to the woods. Stop pretending. Walk on four feet. 

He tosses the coat to an elegant chair, peels off the gun holster. Much use this pistol is getting: he could not stop Gibson’s death, Gore’s injury; he is responsible that they met an ill fate. There is no use for him: there are no wolves here, just the one he carries within. They would all be better off if he left, but he has Jopson to protect. 

What if he is protecting him from his own self? 

_He said I’ll leave him to die,_ he reminds himself. _There was no talk of murder_. 

But can he rule out the possibility that he would hurt him? He is not that kind of man, yes: but he may be that kind of animal; and the beast is cornered; it is scratching at his skull, whining to get out, seeking escape like the ghost did. Fear is such an animal instinct; it is overpowering; he walks around helplessly, struggling to wrestle back his senses from the jaw of anxiety. Dread is a hungry thing: it gnaws at him, chews and spits. He ruffles up his hair, then claws at his face in despair. The silver rings sear his skin. He glances in the looking glass.

Amber eyes look back. 

He halts his steps. 

His eyes are yellow and round. 

_No_ , he wants to say, but only a growl escapes. He leaps: as he moves, his bones seem to twist. He leans into the looking glass, pulling at the skin under his monster eyes. His face rips: there is dark fur beneath the skin. He opens his mouth to scream, but his jaw reveals a wolf’s snout and bloody teeth. 

The monster is crawling out of him. 

It will shed his skin piece by piece. 

He hits the glass with all his might. The shards cut his fist: there is nothing beneath but flesh. He doubles over, cradling his hand, and there is something wrong with his breath, wheezing and heaving dry as he stumbles away from the golden frame where pieces of glass are still clinging, but he is not going to look into it, he is not—an animal— 

He is not—

“Mr. Little?” Jopson calls, and there is a rapid little knock on the door. 

He whimpers, turns sharply with a yelp. Examines his fist. There are tiny pieces of glass in it, and in the glass, he can see— 

“Oh dear,” Jopson says. “Mr. Little, whatever happened?” 

“Get out,” he snarls. 

(He speaks in a human tongue, but for how long?) 

Jopson walks to him, steps soft like a cat’s. He should be running. Edward recoils until he is cornered: his back hits the wall, and he cannot help but show teeth, because the panic is rising, because he is turning, because Jopson must get away—

“Give it here,” Jopson says, taking his hand. “Let me see. Nasty cuts, aren’t they? We must get them cleaned.” 

“Leave,” Edward rasps, begging him, all his senses sharpened—

Something changed in Jopson’s scent— 

He smells so _warm—_

He is what the wolf wants. 

“Did the looking glass give you a fright?” Jopson asks, sparing a glance at the ravaged frame. “I noticed they are turning; remember, Mr. Le Vesconte said they would.” 

“What colour are my eyes?” Edward forces out.

Jopson combs an errant lock back from Edward’s sweaty forehead and says, “They’re brown.” 

Edward’s shoulders sag. 

He lets himself be led to the washing basin, heart thudding. He is heaving still, large gulps of air. But Jopson is not afraid: Edward does not frighten him. 

The blood turns the water pink in a bowl of bone-white porcelain.

“I’ve given you more work,” he notes on a shaky voice as he watches Jopson tend to his injuries.

“I don’t mind it, really.” 

Edward nuzzles him in apology still. Jopson chuckles: the soft sound makes Edward feel rather silly. “What a scene I caused.” 

“You should’ve seen me when I noticed my reflection.” 

“What was it like? If I may ask; I don’t wish to pry.” 

“A ghost,” Jopson says, soft. “When I die I want to be gone; to fade away and disappear. No more than a memory.”

Edward nods solemnly, his head spinning. “I want that too,” he confesses as Jopson applies a bandage fashioned from a handkerchief. 

“Test your fingers,” Jopson asks, and smiles when Edward obeys with no sound of complaint. “Good. They’re flesh wounds.” 

“How’s Mr. Gore?” 

“The same, I’m afraid. That it is good news in his case…” Jopson trails off, shakes his head. Pats Edward’s shoulder, then heads to the sofa. “Would you mind if I smoked here? I need a cigarette rather desperately.” 

“Not at all,” Edward says. He is so relieved Jopson is here he could weep with it. Pieces of glass crunch under his boots as he follows, but he pays them no attention. He has learnt his lesson. He must not let panic rule him; if only it were so easy as deciding it!

He still feels skittish, and it is an effort to sit straight. He wants to curl up, make himself small and harmless; a darling pet, a lapdog, not human or wolf. He slumps against Jopson’s shoulder as he lights his mugwort cigarette; Jopson lets him, and does not protest when Edward lays his head in his lap. No word is spoken: Jopson caresses his hair, his whiskers, and Edward is finally able to close his eyes and just breathe for a moment, until he no longer feels like choking and his shaking stills. 

He thinks only of warmth. 

Jopson’s scent is feverish, but there is no note of sickness in it. Edward soaks it up all. It is a comforting smell. He can almost taste it: a tang of something salty and sharp, which lingers over his usual scent of incense and thunder. 

“Do you work with electricity?” he asks softly. 

“Often,” Jopson says with a rewarding scratch. “I have a versorium, to detect the static some ghosts leave.” 

“Thought so,” Edward mumbles comfortably, burrowing his face into a strong thigh. 

“Can you smell it on me?”

“You smell so lovely, Mr. Jopson.”

“Do I?” Jopson asks; exhales some smoke, and remarks, fond, “You and your clever nose. Don’t be afraid to use it.” 

Edward grunts, turns his head to find where the scent is most intense, nuzzles into it. Jopson’s hand tightens in his hair, and he opens his eyes lazily. 

His face is buried in Jopson’s groin. 

He wants to pull away and apologise, but Jopson’s grip is tight. It is not yanking him away; on the contrary: Jopson presses him closer still. Edward rubs his nose over him experimentally, hears him gasp. 

They should not be doing this. 

The scent fills everything, and Edward can finally identify it. It is the smell of lust and desire. 

“I must confess,” Jopson says, “that I find you irresistible when you are somewhat disheveled. Not to make light of your injury, of course, but, ah—I have a weakness for the ferocious.” 

Edward nuzzles him again. All that heat is going into his head. He hardens in his trousers. If only it were yesterday; if they were in the carriage, ignorant of the prophecy; if his fate were not written on his hand— 

“My life,” Jopson says, breathless, “is filled with fragile things. All that airy elegance. Rich clients. Radiance. I live on the margins of it, but I live so near it it feels like I have never known anything else. I crave something forgotten. It’s in you. I feel so pure and clean every day, cold like glass and just as rigid, and I want you to break me.”

Edward inhales slowly, enjoying Jopson’s scent like a delicacy. He laps at him, just to taste. It must be forgiven, to want a taste. Jopson’s trousers feel rough on his tongue, but it is worth for a lick of heat. 

Jopson’s hand tighten into a fist as he rubs himself over Edward’s waiting mouth. 

“I want to go into the woods,” he sighs. “Escape London, just go, alone in the night in a red-lined cape. I want you to find me.” 

Edward takes him into his mouth, the fabric of Jopson’s trousers taut. He sucks at him, his teeth scraping over the flesh. Edward is fully erect. If Jopson wanted, he would have him. Mount him in the dirt, the foliage. He would not be afraid to want it. 

“Wear moonlight,” Edward breathes, licks at him again and Jopson shudders. “Blue on your pale skin as I lay you over your red-lined cape. I wet you with spit. Make your arse open, slick. I penetrate you and watch you scream. Would you scream?”

“Your name,” Jopson gasps, throws his head back as Edward sucks at the wet spot on the fabric. “Edward!” Jopson cries and his voice is broken by need, it is everything Edward wanted to hear, to be beckoned like this, _Edward, I need you, I—_

_When I die I want to be gone._

_When I die—_

“Stop me,” Edward begs him, burying his face into Jopson’s quivering stomach. “Don’t let me rob you of your life, I must be stopped, Mr. Jopson, Thomas, tell me to _stop—_ ” 

Jopson cradles his nape, his touch calming; he guides up Edward into a kiss, panting against his lips. They catch their breath, stealing it from one another. Edward holds onto the carved backrest for balance; his nails sink into the wood. The rings burn, the knife strapped to his thigh is heavy. He wishes he was not himself today: that he were a different man, unclawed, daring, his palm mapping out a divergent destiny. 

“I apologise for making you feel dangerous,” Jopson whispers. 

Edward straddles his hips urgently, cupping his face. “It’s no fault of yours,” he says. “I’m to blame alone.” 

“I don’t blame you.” Jopson’s gaze flicks over his features as he caresses down Edward’s back. He rests his hands over Edward’s arse. Edward welcomes the touch; sways forward, but he is still frightfully aroused—as his prick brushes against Jopson’s stomach, they both make a sound. Jopson’s moan dies in his throat, choked-off; his chest is heaving as he buries his face in Edward’s neck. The posture stays must be restrictive; if Jopson wanted, Edward would loosen them. Get him gloriously naked. Caress his ribcage with claws, his teeth. “I feel horrid,” Jopson says against his prickled skin. “You’ve been nothing but good to me, and I put you in the restraints of prophecy.” 

“I need the restraint, for I won’t be good for long,” Edward reminds him. “My monstrous nature might overwhelm me; I think that is what is going to happen: so beware my yellow eyes, beware my howl.” 

Jopson mouths at his neck, pulls back. His hands are splayed on Edward’s buttocks still: they fondle and squeeze. “Not every beast is a monster,” he says. “Remember that; and that there are things that drive the best of us to do horrible deeds—hunger, sickness, pain, survival, instinct; sometimes, just calculation; logic. So don’t forget your love for me.”

“Never,” Edward swears, swoons in for a kiss. How strange it is: he shares his taste to express his admiration for Jopson; but he might doom him with every stroke of his tongue. He cannot stop; will not; how could he ever deny Jopson this small affection? He aches for Jopson, his prick pressing against the front of his trousers, but that can be ignored: what burns within cannot—he is falling in love with this man, under the most unfortunate circumstances. 

Jopson caresses his thighs, hooks a finger into the knife’s strap as he licks into Edward’s mouth. “If only I didn’t love playing with fire quite so much.” He kisses him again, his tongue tracing the canine teeth. Edward pushes him to the backrest, pressing into him bodily, his erection trapped between them both. He wishes his anatomy were more human in this regard, but it takes time for his desire to subside. Jopson claws at the back of thighs, makes him lift his hips, Edward’s prick rubbing against the hard pane of the posture stays, linen and silk. “If we could,” Jopson says, slow, “I would—”

A cry rings out. 

They both bolt up, as if caught trespassing by fate. 

“Blast it,” Edward whispers, urgent. “That came from Mr. Gore’s sickroom.” 

Jopson’s eyes widen. Edward swears again, and scrambles to get his greatcoat and hide his state; Jopson is out of the door before he is quite finished dressing. He grabs his pistol and follows through the gloomy hallway.

There is a cry again, louder, pained. 

Edward watches Jopson tear open Gore’s door; watches as something knocks him down—a dark shape, lumbering and strange. Edward fires at it: it disperses into mist before the bullet hits. 

“Mr. Jopson!” he shouts; Jopson is already getting up, sparing him but a smile before he steps inside, too brave for his own good. Edward rushes to look around for the scattered shadow: it seemed so solid a moment ago, and had the force to push Jopson down—how could it have disappeared so fast, so completely? Every darkened corner could hide a monster. Edward keeps turning, pistol pointed, before he enters the room. 

The smells turn his stomach. 

He looks down. 

He has stepped into blood. 

“Help him,” Jopson says. Edward spins around and finds Jopson kneeling above Blanky, who is groaning and grinning. 

His left leg is missing. 

“Fucking bastard,” Blanky spits, “came back to finish the job—” He drops something from his hand: a stake, sharpened, and soaked red. Blanky falls back onto the floor and whoops, then laughs again, maniacal. 

Edward sidesteps the blood, glancing up to confirm that Gore is saved: his eyes are shut, affixed with sealing wax, but he is breathing still. 

“Mr. Blanky, I need you to hold Mr. Little’s hand, and hold fast while I tie your leg,” Jopson says. 

The door flies open: Le Vesconte enters, closely trailed by Hodgson; their faces show the same horror that sits in Edward’s stomach like a stone. He cannot even look into Blanky’s face. He stares at where his leg should be, where it has been chewed off and devoured. 

The bitemarks are not something he recognises. 

“What was it?” Hodgson asks, his calm tone faint. Blanky clenches Edward’s hand as Jopson applies pressure around the wound. 

“Bugger me if I know,” Blanky grits. “Some spirit that dresses as an animal.”

Crozier arrives and Fitzjames too, weapons drawn; Crozier’s face falls. Fitzjames remains by the door as Crozier rushes to Blanky’s side. 

“Did it attempt to attack Mr. Gore?” Fitzjames asks. 

“There’s a place and time for an investigation, James,” Crozier bites back, holding the hand Edward had grasped. 

“‘Tis fine,” Blanky says, sounding delirious with pain and shock. “It did, too. Mr. Little, be a good lad and give us something to bite?” 

Edward reaches for his gun holster blindly. His hands are trembling again. Over the sickening sweetness of blood, there is another smell that lingers—like crisp mornings near winter, hoarfrost and still water; _not_ fur; not flesh. 

The spirit might dress as an animal, but it is shapeless. 

It could be anywhere. 

Watching them. 

Irving and Hickey show up, finally; Irving peers into the room and stumbles back in shock. Hickey wears a mild look of curiosity; he attempts to weasel in, but Fitzjames grabs his collar and yanks him back.

“Not so fast,” Fitzjames says. “I’m arresting you for murder and grievous injury. Mr. Hodgson, Mr. Le Vesconte, lock him up and guard him well.” 

“Murder!” Irving says, looking between Blanky and Hickey, whose expression is unchanged even in Fitzjames’ grip. “He was never here!” 

“I’m working on that part,” Fitzjames grumbles, twists Hickey’s arm back. He blinks up the ceiling, seemingly amused. 

“I would not be terribly optimistic about your success, Mr. Fitzjames,” Hickey notes as he is handcuffed. Fitzjames shakes his hair back, peers into the room, gaze shifting between the blood-soaked floor, the kneeling figures, until it settles on Jopson. 

“We need a séance,” he says grimly. “Mr. Jopson, please summon the ghost of Cornelius Hickey.” 

❦

The library has a round table made of oak, so that is where they go. Edward helps Jopson light candles while Fitzjames draws the green velvet curtains and Irving frets. 

“A bad spirit,” he mumbles, “Mr. Gibson dead, Mr. Gore senseless and Mr. Blanky injured; oh my brothers, this is out of our hands. Let us not turn to darkest magic, but pray!” 

“As we proceed, you may do as you please,” Fitzjames says, fastening the gold tassels, “but I need you as witness at present. Please be seated, and follow whatever Mr. Jopson instructs you to do.” 

Irving is shaken, but he obeys, round-eyed and deathly pale. Darkness veils the room, so complete and absolute it seems to weigh on Edward’s chest. He seeks for Jopson’s hand, squeezes it briefly. The flicker of candlelight shines in Jopson’s eyes as he peers up, upper lip stiff.

“Is it safe?” Edward whispers urgently. 

“I know his name,” Jopson says. “I have power over him.” 

Edward pulls out a cushioned chair for Jopson, gets one for himself. He is restless; it is a challenge to sit still when so many questions are on the tip of his sour tongue, when Mr. Blanky has only stopped bleeding and their host is under lock.

“I may not succeed,” Jopson explains; Fitzjames waves it away, but he goes on. “I may appear lifeless during, or shake violently, losing control over my limbs; if the latter happens, you must call me back from my trance by saying my name three times. What you will see tonight might frighten you, but I ask you to hold on, for my protection and yours. Let us join hands.” 

Edward links his fingers with Jopson’s, grabs for Irving; feels that his palm is cold and clammy. All of them are jittery: even Fitzjames, ever the stoic, appears unsettled, the lines framing his mouth dark and deep, his brows furrowed. Jopson closes his eyes, and there is silence. Edward’s breathing is too loud in his ears, like the panting of an animal. 

“I’m calling on the ghost of Cornelius Hickey,” Jopson says, voice ringing clear. 

“He lives,” Irving mumbles. 

Jopson’s eyes flicker open to reveal a sharp gaze. “I will kindly ask you not to disturb my focus, Mr. Irving.” 

Irving makes a face as Edward gives him a warning kick. “I fail to see the point of this.” 

“Take a look around after we are done,” Fitzjames says. He sounds exhausted; Edward wonders if he has slept at all since they arrived. 

“I have done just that,” Irving says, returning the kick to Edward. “Mr. Hickey’s library boasts a most excellent collection.”

“Quite a number of French volumes,” Fitzjames goes on, “ for someone who does not speak the language.” 

Irving’s face falls. 

“Surely,” Fitzjames continues, “you have noted the roughness of our host’s hands, when the gloves come off; his odd manner, ill-fitting clothes, contradictory tastes.”

“You will tell me next I should have taken notice of the soles of his shoes.”

“Obviously. It never hurts to be aware of footwear. Our criminal histories, indeed, are often spelt in soil.”

Edward’s stomach twists; Irving is slower on the uptake. “Would you question that he’s a gentleman?”

“That alone was plain from the letter,” Fitzjames says, patient. “No, my friend, this goes much deeper. We are in the unique position to ask the victim himself about a murder that is key to the uncanny mysteries we face—so if you please.” He tips his chin to Jopson, who is staring into the candles’ flame. 

“I’m calling on the ghost of Cornelius Hickey,” he repeats. “If you are with us sir, make your presence known.” 

There is an urgent knock.

It comes from the wall. 

“Mr. Hickey, I offer you my voice so that you shall commune with us through me.” 

Irving flinches; Edward holds on fast as Jopson casts his eyes down, lets them fall shut again. 

“If you have a message to convey, we will listen,” he says, head lolling to his chest, “We are aware that you have been murdered, sir.” 

There is a series of raps, going round them. 

“We offer justice for clarity, sir. Tell us how it happened. I’m your medium. I’m yours. Take control.” 

“Mr. Jopson, you mustn’t let it,” Irving hisses; Edward grips his hand tighter. His heart thuds. He can hear the spirit circling, and there is a chill as he nears: the candles burn low, then burn blue. They cast a macabre hue over Jopson’s face, making his bones stand out, the outline of his skull; his head shoots up, and he opens his eyes.

He is blind. 

His eyes are completely white. 

He licks his lips nervously, his face twitches; Edward has never seen him frown like this. His shoulder rolls to a painful angle. He opens his mouth: his jaw hangs; no sounds come for a moment, then something distant, as if from a deep well. “ _Help”_

“Welcome, Mr. Hickey,” Fitzjames says evenly. Jopson’s neck twists as he turns to look at him, unseeing. A smile slashes across his face, all teeth. 

_“Can you hear me did I succeed am I here”_

The way he speaks—it is not Jopson’s voice, not at all; the timbre, the accent are too different, rural, but enunciated—his mouth moves as he forms the words, but the sound is heard later. 

“We can hear you, Mr. Hickey, loud and clear.” 

_“That’s a relief I have never possessed anybody I wasn’t sure how to do it but the medium is nice he is nice he has a heartbeat his heart beats”_

Edward clings to Jopson’s hand tighter. It feels weightless; he touches the silver ring he gifted him. _Find your way back to me, will you find your way—_

“Don’t get too comfortable in his body,” Irving says darkly. Jopson turns to him, jolting his torso; the chair screeches on the floor. 

“ _I apologise I did not mean to impose or to any way frighten you but I had to let you know I tried to warn_ ”

The way he talks—he does not stop for breath; he must have forgotten how to breathe; Jopson’s body trembles, heaves. 

“You were trying to warn us about your murderer,” Fitzjames says. Jopson tilts his head to nod, the movement twisting his whole body. He sways forward, leaning over the table, close to the flames; Fitzjames and Edward pull him back by his hands—Jopson bends, back arched. 

“ _He brought the beast_ ” 

“Tell us from the beginning,” Fitzjames instructs. “How did you come to know the impostor?” 

Edward sees a sudden flash of the sea, deep-blue and shining. He shakes his head, as if it would dislodge the intruding picture; it lingers like a dream. The sea. The island. A ferryboat. 

“ _Can you see can you he came ashore_ ” 

There: a man who will call himself Mr. Hickey, following the winding path to Arbor Pale Hall. The sun is in his eyes. He gives a smirk to Cornelius. The wind plays with his hair. The wind plays with fire.

“ _I came to inherit Arbor Pale Hall two years prior it was a lovely place oh it was calm a comfort after the death of my father he loved it here he lived here and the house was asleep not a stir I have memories I was a child I would go to the music room and I never wanted I thought no how could I live here with his memory but I missed him and it was my responsibility I came to govern the estate I would have hated it to crumble away like he did it was just me twenty-seven and an orphan and I spent hours here in the library sorting through his letters and I had a staff yes I had Gibson he was my butler and I never minded I must tell you when there was a rumour that he had a fellow come visit followed him from Liverpool where we lived prior and I thought ah what nice friends they are”_

The kitchen. The lights are golden. Cornelius should not be there. He just remembered something about the pudding. (He heard noises.) There is Hickey. Gibson, on his knees. Hickey looks at Cornelius, eyes hooded, mouth open. Cornelius stands. Watching. (How could he look away.) 

Irving flinches again. 

_“I caught them and I should have well I should have dismissed Gibson but that would have been hypocritical to say the least I said let the man keep his living I will not take it away oh dear oh dear I just could not forget it I couldn’t I wanted oh I was lonesome too and Gibson’s fellow knocked on my door he sought me out it wasn’t me he came visiting he came to me when I was alive I had so much shame I could have never but he said he said sir he said I saw your eyes I saw your hand he s-s-said and oh yes he introduced himself he said he had a name but I don’t think it was his I don’t think but I believed him I believed everything what a fool have I been I yearned for him he I think he was a chimney sweep but I did not mind it I saw him and his beauty and it was night and he left Gibson’s room and came to mine and I just started leaving my door open it was never locked and night after night he was there he moved in he never left”_

Hickey stretched out on silk sheets. Cornelius, across him. It is dawn. They are unclothed. Two mirror images, resting. Flushed. Breathless. 

Hickey reaches out, and touches Cornelius’ hair. He makes a sound of gentle protest. 

“It’s getting too long,” he says. 

Hickey wraps a lock around his finger. Pulls. “Don’t cut it. Ever.” 

“It doesn’t suit me as well as it suits you, dear.” 

“There wouldn’t be a difference,” Hickey muses with a strange tilt in his voice, “if you narrated it.” 

“What an absurd comfort!” 

“Mr. Hickey has long, reddish hair,” Hickey says, his touch smoothing into a caress. “Blue eyes.” He strokes Cornelius’ eyelids, who smiles. “He has a short frame. Strong, lithe.” 

“Is that how you’d describe me?” Cornelius mumbles, sleepy. Gets up to his elbow. Hickey does the same. “Leave out the part where I’m devastatingly handsome?” 

“Am I handsome?” 

“Dear, do you have to ask?” 

“Mr. Hickey is handsome.” 

“ _I don’t know if he was planning it from the beginning I like to think he didn’t and other times I think he and Gibson conspired that Gibson let him do it that they wanted the money and were supposed to share it I don’t know how it happened I was not alive for that part you see he had a knife he always had it with him how was I to suspect he grew up in a place where you needed a blade always and one evening he says Cornelius play for me and I played I played did you hear it I played and he slit my throat and that was it he hid my body walled me in and then and then he lived here and no one suspected that he was a stranger he had Gibson and his own servants and I had no power to tell but I’ve been in these walls for a while and then he let loose that a-a-animal I have to h-h-hide because it oh it eats the souls I was not alone but I am the only one left I am it ate-te-te the rest it eats it is h-h-hungry it can smell you it knows you are here it w-w-will feast”_

“What is it?” Irving speaks up, his voice trembling as Jopson wheezes, shaking. “The thing that eats, the beast—do you know its name?” 

Jopson yanks his head up, empty eyes rounding. _“Forgive me Father will you forgive me I don’t know what it is it is here he called it to him and it came and he fed it but then there was nothing left to eat it is st-st-starved”_

“Thomas,” Edward whispers. A violent tremble rushes through Jopson, a seizure so strong it transforms his face into a mask of pain. Edward glances up at Fitzjames, who nods solemnly. Jopson’s nails sink into Edward’s hand. The candles lift from the table, hanging in the air.

“ _My bones my bones_ ,” he heaves. “ _Dig them out-t-t scatter around I want to le-le-leave Gibson’s fellow he’s ah he is getting away watch out he escapes through the cracks”_

“Thomas Jopson,” Edward says, urgent, “Thomas, Thomas, Thomas, come back!” 

Jopson keens, throws his head back as he tries to catch air, like a drowning swimmer. The flames flare up, an angry burst, then all is dark.

Edward rubs Jopson’s back, who coughs and sputters.

“We must go,” Fitzjames says. 

Jopson reaches for his collar with a trembling hand; Edward helps him loosen it, but Jopson is still choking, suffocated by the breathless words of the dead. 

“Oh God, oh God, oh God,” Irving chants. 

“Help me lift him,” Edward begs. He hears Fitzjames get up; there is movement in the dark. There is no moonlight to see by. He cannot calm until he feels Jopson’s weight in his arms, takes in the scent of him—nothing but electricity, the thunder leaving. He holds him fast, and starts running. 

❦

Jopson is holding onto Edward’s shirt with a loose fist, coughing still as he is lowered onto the sofa in Gore’s room. Edward opens the windows as Crozier watches on. 

“So the ghost talked, huh,” he wagers while wiping Blanky’s blood off his hand. Jopson nods, clears his throat only to hack again. He sounds utterly wretched. He starts tugging at his neckerchief; Edward steps close to him to help, undoes the smart knot with clumsy fingers. 

He feels utterly useless. 

The ghost’s warnings ring in his ears, but Jopson’s dry wheezing is louder. He starts unbuttoning his waistcoat when Jopson nods his consent. The room reeks of blood and sickness. Gore is still abed, motionless, and Blanky has been moved to the sofa across. 

The floor is soaked red.

“Don’t tax the lad,” Blanky says. “Tell us this, Mr. Little: was Fitzjames right?” 

“I believe so, yes.” 

“Always is,” Crozier sighs. “Don’t tell him I admitted that.” 

The posture stays are revealed. Jopson turns with some effort so Edward can access the lacing at the back. He does fast work on them, trying to remember a thing about lungs, how they work, but what little he knows of medicine has nothing to do with possession. Crozier lowers himself on the armrest, hands Jopson a bottle, who gives him a disappointed glare. 

“Only used it to clean the wounds,” Crozier swears. “Come on, bottle up.” 

Jopson takes a tentative swig of it, scowls. “Gin.” 

“So you know you can trust me.” Crozier pinches his cheek affectionately. Edward searches Crozier’s face when the captain turns away: he does not look worried, which is reassuring; but he seems tired and, well. 

Ancient. 

Edward sheds his frock coat, wraps Jopson in it as if it were a blanket. “You did so well,” he says. He wants to say that Dr. Goodsir might be on his way, but he does not believe it. 

Jopson smiles at him weakly. “Go catch that rat.” 

“Will you be all right?”

“I’m with friends; I’ll be quite myself within a minute.” 

Edward hopes nobody is looking as he kisses his forehead. 

❦

Edward’s boots drag blood to the hallway. He is past the point of caring. He walks to the stairs to head to the ground floor, only to encounter a disturbed Le Vesconte rushing up towards him.

His face promises a nightmare. 

Edward is tempted to turn on his heels, walk back to the sickroom and curl around Jopson. 

“What?” he asks, not wanting to hear the answer as Hodgson, Irving and Fitzjames bolt upstairs too, all equally horrified. 

“Mr. Hickey’s not in the room,” Hodgson says. “We locked the door and there are no windows—” 

“Bloody chimney sweep,” Fitzjames curses, taking the stairs by two. “I’m such a colossal idiot, Francis will never let me hear the end of this—” 

“He climbed—?” Edward makes a gesture that is supposed to illustrate a fireplace. Irving nods; he looks like he is going to be sick. “Shit,” Edward says eloquently, gets his gun. 

Runs. 

The rush is familiar.

The fear.

The hunt. 

He follows Hickey’s scent to the master bedroom. Shoulders the locked door open with Le Vesconte’s help; recoils as the smell gets stronger, _colder_. 

“Mr. Hickey!” Fitzjames calls out. Edward’s gaze shifts in the gloomy room; there are no lights, but here, the moon shines. The objects illuminated are dark and strange, statues, vases, extravagant furniture, the four-poster bed: Edward had just seen it, in a memory shared. 

“Lord, have mercy on us,” Irving whispers, clutching the cross around his neck and staring ahead into the dimness. “Christ, have mercy on us, our Father which art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name, thy kingdom come, thy will be done—”

Edward is reluctant to follow his gaze. 

A rich rug, hastily peeled up. Underneath: chalk marks, a circle, and the four directions marked with stone, a feather, drops of water and a candle. Hickey in the middle, kneeling, his clothes torn and dirty, coal marking his hands. 

“And forgive us our trespasses—” 

His jaw has been chewed off. His tongue, long and red, hangs from his open throat. 

“And lead us not into temptation—” 

“He was a warlock, then,” Hodgson whispers. Edward looks at Hickey’s hands again, open in a mockery of an offering. 

“What did he summon?” he asks. 

“Something he couldn’t control,” Fitzjames says, stepping closer to the corpse. “Now it’s loose.” 

Le Vesconte passes a hand over his mouth, squeezes his eyes shut. “Why invite us,” he whispers, enraged. “A bloody warlock, he—invoked this thing and told it whom to kill: Gibson for the betrayal; Graham, he was about to find him out; and Mr. Blanky protecting him, but why have us here, why risk it, why would he call the people who hunt the magic folk like him—”

“Mr. Fitzjames had me interrogate him,” Edward says tonelessly. He keeps looking at Hickey’s coal-smeared hand, expecting it to twitch. He will not look at what is left of his face. “I think that was the first time he’s been honest. He said, uh. He told us he just wanted to know. He was...curious.”

“What did Cornelius say about Hickey’s familiar?” Fitzjames muses, lowering himself to his knees so he can better inspect the injury, the wreck of flesh, gnawed. 

Edward turns away sharply, blinks. 

“He said it was hungry,” he says. 

The silver of the rings burn him. 

Flesh is meat. 

“Gentlemen,” Fitzjames announces, “we are food.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Content warnings** : death of father mentioned | lobotomy-like injury | canon-typical loss of limb | graphic description of body horror | implied infidelity (we don’t know if Hickey and Gibson had an arrangement, or if Hickey cheated on him) | identity theft  
>  **Horror spoilers** : ~~head trauma, pierced skull, ghosts, consensual possession, stuff in walls, nails, teeth, bodily transformation, fur and wounds, brutal face injury, brutal neck injury~~
> 
> A note on historical inaccuracies: penitent bands (the predecessor to AA) were associated with Methodism, while Sarah Jopson belonged to the English church and Francis was Catholic. I was too tempted to let them meet this way anyway, and I have the excuse that monsters aren't historically accurate either (or are they!!). The use of an ouija board is also somewhat anachronistic: talking boards were an American invention gaining popularity in the late 1880s, but many claim that its history predates the Ouija-mania. Perhaps in this universe Jopson invented them? ;) 
> 
> Thank you all for reading, and see you next Friday!  
> Please kindly consider a [reblog](https://longstoryshortikilledhim.tumblr.com/post/622636355583868928/cold-sweat-23-a-terror-monster-hunter-fic-e) / [retweet](https://twitter.com/forautumniam/status/1279076383877206016) to help me reach more readers and stand outside their doors at midnight 👁👄👁
> 
> Now with gorgeous **art** by @amatlapal on [tumblr](https://amatlapal.tumblr.com/post/635817222854574080/sketches-based-on-longstoryshortikilledhim-s) / [twitter](https://twitter.com/amatlapal/status/1331806690212196352)!🖤


	3. It Ends

Edward startles awake, too frozen by fear to move. He takes in the room, dim in the dawn, smelling of blood and alcohol. He is on the floor, curled up in his shirtsleeves, using his arm as a pillow. Gingerly, he pulls up his knees to his chest. 

“Good morning,” Jopson whispers. Edward cranes his neck: he has fallen asleep by Jopson’s sofa in the sickroom. His hand hangs down. Edward nuzzles close to it, kisses his fingertips. Jopson moans, pleased, scratches his ear. “Did you know you whimper in your sleep?” 

“Mm.” He needs more of Jopson’s touch, more of his warmth. He rubs his face over Jopson’s wrist, drowsy still, thinking that Jopson will wear his scent the whole day this way, and his scent will protect him, it will show any wayward monster that Jopson is under his care. 

Jopson chuckles; Edward’s whiskers must be tickling him. “You do,” he says, dropping his voice even lower as he rubs Edward’s chin. “There was a whine too, or two; oh, it was rather cute, aren’t you cute?” 

“Bloody adorable,” Blanky grunts from his spot. “Now hush and let us sleep, will you?” 

Edward gets up onto his elbows; Jopson gains access to his nape and happily strokes it as Edward assesses the room again. Crozier is slumped over in a chair, snoring softly, pistol at the ready; Le Vesconte is guarding the door with a very familiar crossbow. 

“I wondered where that went,” Edward grumbles, scratching at his face.

“Finder’s keepers,” Le Vesconte whispers back. His eyes are dark and sunken, his face a waxy pallour. He keeps his attention on Gore, who is dressed in a clean nightshirt, his hair falling over the pillow. Edward wishes he looked asleep, but he is too still, and the copper rod has not been removed from his skull: every breath he draws looks like the last. 

“Shut up,” Blanky mumbles, throwing an arm over his face as he sinks deeper into the sofa’s pillows. Jopson taps on Edward’s shoulder and indicates the door. He follows orders, as silent on his feet as he can be. The cool air of the hallway is refreshing, but the unfamiliar shadows unsettle him. Hickey’s familiar made those dance before; he still sees that strange green glow, the ropes of light squirming in the dark with a peculiar hum. 

They head to Jopson’s room, who does his toilette behind a paravant while Edward faces the window, resisting the siren-call of sloshing water. He wants to wash Jopson himself. Rub the lathered flannel over his soft skin. Lick him clean. 

“The fog hasn’t eased,” he remarks. 

“I hope help is on the way; we dearly need it.” Jopson steps out in fresh mourning clothes (it is no surprise he brought two sets) and looks Edward over as he hands him back his coat. “Hop in, I left you some water.” 

Walking past him is a test. Edward wants to pull him behind the paravant, undress for him and get him naked. He is petrified still: what would soothe him better than pleasing such a beautiful man, removing his careful layers (oh, he would be so gentle!), stripping him naked and giving him more of his scent before it is washed away. 

He is half-erect, which makes the removal of his trousers a challenging prospect. What a pathetic creature he is, all fright and need! The waistcoat and the shirt go too, and he is fighting with his socks when Jopson says from some distance, somewhat gravely, “I shall fetch you a clean shirt, I believe.”

“Don’t go alone.”

“Your room is not far off; and I don’t think the creature is hungry—Mr. Hickey fattened him well on souls, including his own.” 

“Which is not exactly reassuring. Take this.” Edward steps out, naked save for the trousers he holds in front of himself, and offers his pistol. 

Jopson looks him over, swallows thickly. “I’m a saint,” he mutters, takes the gun and hurries away. 

Edward listens as hard as he can for his steps, any cries for help. The house is too silent. 

By the time Jopson returns, Edward is stinking of soap and wearing trousers again, the braces dangling around his hips. Instead of hanging the clean clothes over the paravant, Jopson steps in carrying them, face flushed and pupils dark. He kisses Edward: it is not a kiss of longing, tentative and honey-sweet, but a claiming kiss with clashing teeth and shared spit. 

“We said we wouldn’t,” Edward whispers, lips tingling. He is fairly certain Jopson has bitten him. 

“I’m only a man,” Jopson says, but he pulls back and holds up the shirt as if it were a white flag. He helps Edward dress, which leads to other moments of near danger; but Edward is resolute: there is too much at stake. 

The discovery that the line of his clothed cock fits perfectly over Jopson’s petite arse if he holds him close is entirely accidental. 

“We should join the others,” Jopson says, gripping the washstand as Edward grinds against him. Edward replies with one last sharp cant of his hips, buries his face into his nape. He has that amazing scent again, the one that shows he is ready for sex. 

“When this is over,” Edward pants, “when we survive, if I protect you, may I come see you in London?”

“I shall think I can protect myself, although your help is certainly appreciated, and your eventual betrayal will be noted.” Jopson turns his neck to soften the sentence with a quick peck. “If I’m alive, we’ll discuss what’s to be done.” 

“No need to be morbid,” Edward says, chastened.

Jopson gives him another peck, longer, softer. “That’s how I make my living.” He steps away; Edward follows, righting his clothing on the way. Jopson opens the door: Edward catches the frame. 

“When we kiss,” he says, looming over him, “do you let me kiss you because you think that’s all you will get, before your death?” 

Jopson looks at him intently, his gaze flicking over his face as if he was just taking him in. He smiles sadly. “That’s about it,” he admits. “Although I do hope I’ll live; there is always hope for it. Your idea of relative chastity might just do the trick.” He steps out, but Edward pulls him back by his shoulder. He presses him against the door, not to hurt him, never, but to stop his plan. 

“Let’s make a pact,” he says, urgent. “I’ll look out for you and no-one else, I will focus all my attention to your safety, and that way, I know no harm will come to you, but you must let me be your guard, you must—” 

Jopson frowns, squirms in his grip. “No; out of the question. The injured should be your priority, and don’t let’s forget that we are here to bring justice to the departed, catch that beast—how many might die if we don’t do it? Don’t abandon your duty; certainly not for me. I think I’d hate you for it.”

“You’d hate me!” Edward repeats, heartsick. He lets go of Jopson, staggers back. Jopson grabs his lapels. 

“Listen to me,” he says, far more gentle than Edward deserves. “That’s not your main concern. You might be too frightened to see it right now, but you are a good man, kind and noble. Mr. Blanky always tells me that if the mind goes unnatural, that is not our fault. Your responsibility lies in mastering those notions.” 

“How could I be good when I’m barely human?” Edward protests. Jopson is ready to answer; but Edward turns his head, for he hears steps—Hodgson: he recognises his walk. He steps away from Jopson, for he should not be caught in his room. (He is not quite certain if there is any point in keeping up pretences. This, or what is on this side of the looking glass.) 

“Choices,” Jopson says. Edward turns back to watch him stand over the threshold, looking rather lost. He smiles at him tightly, then hurries ahead. He cannot breathe until Jopson falls into step. 

❦

“There’s the matter of the staff,” Fitzjames says at the breakfast table. Edward is only half paying attention. He is focused on watching his reflection: a wolf in human clothing, all dressed up and eating with delicate silverware, as if he could fool anybody into thinking he is not a brutish thing. Jopson is sitting next to him. He is absent from the looking glass. “Francis proposed that we shall compensate them, and I agree wholeheartedly. Three month’s pay seems fair, until they can find a new employer. We must see to it personally that they return to their family safely.” 

“How?” Le Vesconte asks. The crossbow is leaning against his chair. There is a neat pile of scones in front of him, but he has not touched any. “We are trapped here too.” 

Fitzjames spreads his hands with an easy gesture. “The fog will lift, eventually.”

“It’s not natural, that fog.”

“Which only means we will have to _make_ it lift, darling.” 

Le Vesconte looks at him sharply. “I went to the music room last night,” he says. “I got the bones out from the wall. We buried them with Father Irving under the sycamore tree. The fog remains. It’s not the ghost’s doing.”

“Obviously.” 

“So how do we make it go away? If the familiar did it, which is lurking God’s knows where, or the warlock, who is now dead? We made no progress besides solving a cold case and nearly losing Graham and Mr. Blanky, losing Mr. Gibson, losing _two_ Mr. Hickeys.” 

“The original didn’t die under our watch,” Fitzjames clarifies primly, “but I see what you mean. If it’s any consolation, in my profession a trail of bodies usually leads the way towards a solution.” 

“I’d rather not bloody die, thank you very much.” 

“Well, it’s typically not preferred, yes.” 

“I don’t think this will be one of your success stories, Jamie.” With that, Le Vesconte gets to his feet, and bows to take his leave. Fitzjames stares after him, chewing his lips. 

Edward considers his mushrooms.

(They are not very good.) 

He craves meat. 

Had been, ever since smelling—

So he will not have it. 

“You haven’t buried the warlock,” Fitzjames says, addressing Irving, who startles and almost spills his tea. 

“Couldn’t,” he says, trying to compose himself. The attempt fails. His hollow eyes betray him, the way he keeps blinking. That is a man with regrets. Irving has always lived in a way such that he would have nothing to atone for. How he toiled, the poor sod. “I cannot give a witch a Christian burial; it’d desecrate the rite. Even to just put him in the ground, with no funeral service, we would need an elm coffin, or we would, well, we would have to burn him.” 

“No need to get quite so barbaric,” Hodgson opines. 

“I wouldn’t say it’s...” Irving trails off. “Oh, what do I know! Ghosts walk the earth. I’m gone from a room for five minutes and abominable rituals are performed there. I’m nothing. I’m useless.” 

Edward considers giving him an encouraging kick, but settles for a friendly grunt. Irving speaks from his own heart. It could be a comfort to commiserate, but comfort is hardly deserved. Edward looks at the rest of his breakfast, feeling sick. 

He needs to get out of here. 

Cannot. 

He should go to the woods. Into the dark. Go where the leaves are dripping moonlight. The dirt soft under his paws. In the distance, a long, hollow howl. A call. _Come to us, brother. Join_. 

“Please give my thanks to Mr. Diggle,” Jopson says, rising. He has some scones in a napkin which he passes to Edward, who stares at it dumbly. “We owe something to Mr. Blanky and Captain Crozier, yes?” 

“Oh,” Edward says, eyeing the bundle as if he expects it to levitate away. He did not think Jopson would still tag along, after that talk—but it was not refusal; just a warning; a warning that pains Edward— _don’t abandon your duty_. Still: the choices he will make are written on his palm, are they not? One poor choice after the other making up a flawed destiny. That is all there is. 

“I’m sorry to see you so melancholy,” Jopson remarks on the way to the sickroom. “Is there anything I could do to cheer you?” 

“Run,” Edward mumbles, even as he takes Jopson’s hand. He is a weak man, creature, monster. 

“I have no reason to run,” Jopson argues. “One’s character is revealed through actions; you’ve been perfectly agreeable so far.” He presses a quick kiss to Edward’s temple. “A proper pet,” he adds in a whisper. 

A pleasant shiver races through Edward. He parts his lips to reply, but there is a _sound_. 

He does not like that sound at all. 

It is coming from the floor above. He turns to the wide stairs, scowls at them. A faint morning light falls through the windows. Dry branches of trees are clawing at the glass. All is grey outside: the fog is growing. Then there is that _sound_ again from upstairs, too much like steps, the walk of someone who is heavily injured, dragging his ankle. 

“Mr. Le Vesconte?” he calls. He knows it is not him. He does not walk like this. It is someone smaller, lighter. 

“What do you hear?” Jopson asks urgently, peering around. 

The hair on Edward’s neck is standing up. 

He knows what he will see before it is revealed. 

He can smell it. 

Dead flesh stinks. 

Hickey steps onto the stairs. His filthy red hair hangs in his ruined face. His eyes peer out, glassy like a fish’s. Blood drips from his tongue, and a gurgling sound is torn from his open throat, a drowned cry of agony. 

“I hear,” Edward says slowly, “a reason to run.” 

Jopson grabs Edward’s hand, yanks him away. He pulls him along the hallway, but it is pointless. 

Hickey starts running, quicker than a spider. 

Edward tears the closest door open, pushes Jopson inside. It is his own room with the broken looking glass. Of course. 

“No, no,” Jopson says, trying to slip back out, but Edward blocks the door, because he can hear the fucking thing _breathing_. “We must get to the sickroom, we shall warn the others!” 

Hickey rattles the knob. Edward curses, fumbles for the keys, but the door opens halfway before he reaches them and Hickey pushes in, screaming that throatless scream. 

Edward has no choice. 

He punches him. 

His bandaged fist get slimy with blood and drool; he grabs for the door, forces it closed, but Hickey must have had a hand in there, because he hears something _crack_ , a terrible sound that makes him sick but he looks down anyway, sees Hickey’s fingers worming in the crack, dark with ashes, and Edward keeps pushing the door and squeezes his eyes shut, and he wishes it made no sound, tearing flesh and breaking bones—

The door is closed. 

Edward reaches for any sort of sturdy furniture blindly, crams a desk in there. It is not perfect but it is the best barricade they have with a reanimated corpse at the door. 

“Forget the sickroom,” he barks as he heads to the towering wardrobe. “He’d follow. Help me move this.” 

Jopson is speechless. He is staring at the door still. It shakes in its frame. The thing is gaining back its strength by the second. 

“Mr. Jopson, please,” Edward says. Begs. 

Jopson shakes his head, rushes to his aid. The wardrobe is a massive, ancient thing, heavy even for one with a strength that surpasses most human’s. 

“What is he?” Edward pants as he pushes the wardrobe towards the entrance, lets Jopson guide its way.

“He’s—possessed, I think; the familiar must have escaped his binding spell but it has nowhere to go, and no form, so it dressed itself in Mr. Hickey’s corpse—oh dear, no, no, no!” 

The door creaks open. 

Edward shoves the wardrobe in there with his best effort. It is just wide enough to block the entrance. It shakes as it settles in place, then stirs again, as if _pushed_. 

Edward reaches for Jopson’s hand. “Do you know how to climb walls?” 

“Why would anyone?” Jopson counters, livid. The imposing wardrobe rattles violently, its doors flying open and the shelves falling like teeth. 

“I’ll teach you something new today.” Edward drops to his knees; it takes Jopson a moment to understand that he means him to climb his back and hold on fast. A moment too long: Edward barely hauls him up when the wardrobe topples over with a deafening crash. Edward rushes to the window, not looking back, tears it open and climbs outside. 

There is a shock of wet air. 

Jopson holds on for dear life as Edward leaps over the frame.

Below them is nothing. 

To be fair, it has been a while since Edward climbed walls. 

His hands are still sticky, and the stones are wet, sweating in the fog. 

Edward feels for cracks in boots that were not made for the task, using hands that are—

He has to use his claws. 

He hangs his head as he sinks his nails in. There is a crash from above, then another. Hickey is searching the room for them. Edward cannot remember if he left the window open. 

“Don’t make a sound,” he whispers. Jopson clasps him closer, holds his breath. Edward descends into the fog steadily, little by little. He is not a monster. He is not. He is a strong man. That is all there is to it, is that not the case? A Huntsman, well-trained and educated in the art of escape—as he thinks it he feels his claws retreat. 

The sound of Hickey’s rage is fainter now. Muffled by the fog, or perhaps far away. 

“Do you think it’s safe to jump?” Edward asks in a hurried whisper. 

“By Jove,” Jopson mutters into his nape, “if _this_ is what’s written on your palm, leading me into mortal peril—”

Edward puts his forehead against the wet stone, squeezes his eyes shut. The smell of blood on his hands is overwhelming. He tries not to focus on it. He is listening—listening with ears which are perhaps somewhat more pointed than usual—not to the silence from the room above, high above, but the wind, his good friend the wind who is always whispering— “Jump,” he says. “Trust me. The grass is singing.” 

He feels Jopson’s hold ease, and his heart beats faster than it ever did. “I do trust you, you know,” Jopson says, breath caressing Edward’s neck. 

He lets go.

❦

“As rescue plans go, this was poorly executed,” Edward admits. Jopson is holding his hips and limps around in the fog. He is not seriously injured. Thank the powers that may be that he is not. 

Edward, however, has what feels like a couple of broken ribs. 

(Not the first time. Not the last.)

(He should have listened for longer.) 

“We must get back,” Jopson says, peering into the fog hopelessly. It is like a wall, separating them from all.

“I’m fairly certain the others have heard Hickey and went into hiding—” 

“We shall wrap your poor side posthaste, is what I mean.” 

“Ah,” Edward mumbles. “That.” 

Jopson places his hand over the injured ribs. They are tender, and it hurts to inhale, but Edward refuses to hiss in pain. The ache of a few broken bones is manageable.

“Does it hurt?” Jopson asks, caressing up his side gingerly, so focused on him it feels like nothing else matters. The world is a blank slate. Edward wants to remake it without beasts. 

“I heal faster than…” _Humans_. “Than most people.”

Jopson hums, his fingers curling into a fist, loosely gripping Edward’s waistcoat. Edward dips in for a fleeting kiss, close-lipped, just to find comfort in Jopson’s warmth. Jopson sighs and parts his lips, invites him in with an imploring lick. He is somewhat of a slapdash kisser, and Edward loves him for it, loves the demands he makes wordlessly, keen and hasty. They keep breaking apart just to clash again with the relief of momentary survival. 

Edward wants to pick him up, hold him and dissolve in kisses as the fog veils them, but they will have to find their way back. 

“I want to be brave for you,” he whispers, voice broken.

Jopson is so close his breath traces his words. “You don’t have to.” His grip tightens. “Can you walk?”

“Of course.” 

Jopson offers his arm anyway. Edward leans onto him. He thinks he can remember from whence they came, but the fog is tricky. They loiter around, quite lost as if in an endless maze, convinced that the house is just within reach. West blends into East in the vertigo of the mist. Even the smells are deceptive, dampened by the wet smell of the soil, the air. The only thing Edward is sure of is the sharp pang of his broken ribs and Jopson’s closeness, a balm to his injuries. His warmth radiates. 

A rectangle of yellow light is ignited at last: it seems to be imposed on nothing, as if it hung in the darkened sky. 

“If I were Arbor Pale Hall,” Jopson notes, “I’d hide away in shame too.” 

They follow the light from the window. The house grows with every step, its dark door a yawning mouth. Into the jaws of menace, then; Edward has to fight his instincts and training every step of the way, both telling him to flee. His ribs complain as he takes the stairs: the pain is cutting, but not persistent, only flares up with breath and movement. He should be well enough, then, to face whatever’s inside. 

The hall swims in light. It blinds Edward for a moment; when his vision clears, he sees Fitzjames, Hodgson, and Le Vesconte by the twisting marble stairs, all armed, but weapons lowered. 

Jopson gasps and covers his mouth, steps forward. 

Edward glances up. 

Laid on the steps is Irving, arms outstretched like Christ. He is bleeding likewise, with wounds on his palms and his side, and his heart— 

“John?”

—gobbled up.

Except that is not right, for Irving must be alive. He was alive not an hour ago, at breakfast. He had cocoa. 

Edward staggers towards him, smiling, expecting him to sit up and call it all a bluff. He has never been one for practical jokes, but he is not one for _death_ , so what Edward sees is impossible. 

Irving’s bright eyes are wide open. His head has fallen to the side. He does not look afraid. He just looks like he is in immense pain. 

“We found him a moment ago,” Fitzjames says, shaken; he licks his lips to control himself. “The thing stole away.” 

Edward takes a step up the stairs.

He smells death. 

“Our only expert on reanimated corpses lies with his skull impaled,” Le Vesconte grits. “Nothing will save us. How do we kill this monster? It’s not made of mortal flesh.”

“ _Dis-moi ce que tu manges, je te dirai ce que tu es,_ ” Hodgson mutters, joining Edward on the stairs, who is staring at Irving. 

He is not moving. 

“ _Tell me what you eat and I will tell you who you are_ : what happened to poor John looks...personal,” Hodgson goes on. “Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Fitzjames?” 

Fitzjames’ voice is hollow and empty. Defeated. “Absolutely.”

“There is a horrific deliberation.” Hodgson kneels down, and passes his hand over Irving’s face. Edward expects him to flinch. He does not. Hodgson helps him close his eyes. It feels final; _eternal_. 

“It seems as if it remembers its victim,” Fitzjames muses. “Perhaps through consuming Mr. Hickey’s soul, his memories were digested, too.”

“John?” Edward tries again. He feels Jopson’s hand on his back, but he can only stare at Irving. 

They should have been here, when it happened.

They should have. 

Maybe it could have been stopped. Perhaps—

“We’re wasting our time theorising,” Le Vesconte argues. “If we don’t focus, the next one might be you, Jamie. Have you confirmed that the sickroom is secure?” 

Fitzjames nods wordlessly. 

Edward swallows back a sob; pain flares up in his chest and his lungs threaten to collapse. 

Irving was not an easy acquaintance to have, but he was the closest thing Edward had to a friend, awfully religious, indeed, but also sharp, loyal, lonely. Edward always imagined he would live to ninety, tucked away in some country parish; Edward would come visit and they would bicker endlessly. 

Jopson keeps rubbing his back, but it is not helping.

There is a conversation, but Edward cannot hear it. 

He must keep his attention focused. 

Irving smells good. Delicious.

(His friend.) 

He smells like food.

“We must split up,” Le Vesconte argues, face contorted with emotion as he gestures with the crossbow, “sweep the premises, leave no corner unsearched, locate the thing—”

“Destroy the vessel,” Fitzjames finishes grimly. “The spirit will escape again, but it might give us some time to deliberate our next move.” 

Irving died alone. 

Edward turns away sharply, marches forward, head held up and hands in his pockets. 

Why would he go alone, the idiot! Whatever happened—revenge is the answer; and a monster can kill a monster. 

He hears Jopson rush after him, then halt, uncertain. He looks back over his shoulder; finds Jopson standing halfway between Fitzjames and him, lost between duty and affinity. 

Edward clicks his tongue, and Jopson steps forward. “We’re going hunting,” Edward announces.

Jopson takes the next step. 

❦

Edward is burning with fury. He wants to tear the house down, brick by brick, if necessary. He yanks off the heavy velvet curtains and the empty white paintings on his way, smashes the glasses in every room they enter and yells, “I know that you are here somewhere! Come out, come out, monster!”

“Is this wise?” Jopson asks in a hushed tone, trailing along. Edward grabs the cellarette and brings it down; the bottles explode on the floor, spitting shards as their contents bleed out. 

“He wanted this house,” Edward grunts, marching through the door. “He wanted it so much he was willing to kill for it. It must still hold value for him.” He gets his knife, twirls it around and stabs the wall. He drags it over the expensive paper, gutting the floral pattern. 

“I wouldn’t provoke him,” Jopson says. Edward will not listen: Irving must be avenged. He enters the taxidermy room ready to wrestle any beast. He swipes off the figurines from the mantlepiece, crashes the clock that has stopped, its arms pointing to a perpetual midnight. The glass breaks under the heel of his boots; he stomps on it again, and it is a skull, it is Hickey’s skull, undead or alive, it is Mr. Hickey, and the crunch of it is so satisfying.

“Hark,” Jopson says; he turns around, holding up a finger. His eyes are so blue they seem almost opaque. His hair falls into his face. He looks brittle and crushable like those silly tokens Edward had upset. 

He should not be here. 

None of them should be.

They have been herded here. Sheep to the slaughter. 

“Do you hear that?” Jopson asks. His breath curls from his lips like smoke. The temperature has dropped. 

A tuneless song sounds from below. The rhythmic breathing of a beast. It is like a lullaby, low and distant.

Edward smiles bitterly. Steps over the wreckage and grips Jopson’s arm. “I know where it is,” he announces. The room has two doors: one leads back to where they came, the other is the road to vengeance. Edward steers Jopson towards the former. “You should go join the others; be safe.” 

“I’m not leaving you,” Jopson says. “Let’s both go; regroup and face the monster all together.” 

“There’s no time,” Edward says. Jopson struggles to get free of his hold; Edward lets go. 

Jopson dusts off his sleeve imperiously, glaring at him. “I’m not going without you.” 

Edward scoffs. “I wish you weren’t quite so headstrong, Mr. Jopson.” He heads to the door that opens to the monster’s den and tears it open. He cares not if Jopson follows. He has been trying to keep him safe, kept trying and nearly failed every step of the way, for Jopson is reckless and will run towards peril—then turn around and blame destiny. Edward curls his hand into a fist, his fingers sinking into the bandage, Hickey’s dead blood tainting it. Underneath it lies his fate, written out in a jamble of wrinkles. He will not accept what it says. He is ready to prove himself better, test his courage, avenge Irving and save Jopson, whether he likes it or not. 

He storms through the arsenal and a set of rooms, each getting colder. In the last one, hoarfrost covers the furniture. Edward opens a door, turns a corner. 

The cellar waits, its door open. The floor and the walls are frozen. Le Vesconte is climbing up the slippery stairs, holding onto the railing. A vibrant green glow follows him. 

“There’s nothing in there,” he says. 

“Are you certain?” Edward asks. He hears faint steps from behind: of course Jopson has followed him. Le Vesconte’s eyes round in his pale face. 

Edward turns to see Jopson in Hickey’s grip. His mouth is covered by a flayed hand missing a few fingers. Hickey’s other hand is wrapped around Jopson’s throat, crushing his windpipe. 

All Edward can do for a moment is watch. 

If he makes a move, Hickey will break Jopson’s neck. He is so certain he can almost hear it. Sees the intent in Hickey’s misty gaze and the permanent smile of teeth in his gums, where his jaw has been torn off. 

Jopson does not move. He is more clever than that. His eyes seek Edward, his gaze determined. _Now_ , it says. 

Edward hears Le Vesconte move.

“Don’t shoot!” he cries out, stepping between the crossbow and Hickey. His chest heaves, his ribs tear at his flesh. Panic seizes his limbs. He feels numb with it, his vision swimming and thoughts getting hazy. Hickey cannot hurt Jopson. He cannot, he cannot; but Edward knows not how to stop him, and Hickey seems to be enjoying it, dragging out the moment deliberately as he stands with his hostage, smearing ash and blood on his face while he chokes him out slowly.

Jopson closes his eyes and his head falls forward. 

Edward is frozen in place.

He cannot breathe. 

Jopson goes limp. The errant lock always slipping free covers his face; from under it, he peers up. Winks. 

He moves so suddenly Edward can hardly follow it. A sharp jab of his elbow, first into Hickey’s stomach, then his jaw; he dances away the moment Hickey’s grip eases. He reaches into his frock coat as Hickey staggers back, gets the pistol Edward handed him this morning. He pulls the trigger, unblinking as the muzzle spits sparks.

One shot, straight between Hickey’s eyes. 

The skull spreads open like a flower as the corpse collapses.

There is a lull of terrible silence.

Le Vesconte breaks it with a whoop. “A fine aim, Mr. Jopson!”

“I’ve shot smaller hawks than him.” Jopson’s voice is strained; he keeps the gun pointed at the monster, who does not flinch. 

Edward is a statue of dread. His heart hammers in his chest, shaking his aching ribs. Jopson is safe. (Not on his merit. He did nothing.) He lives, he lives. (A moment came to save him, and Edward missed it. He failed like he failed Irving.) 

“I say we leave,” Le Vesconte proposes. Jopson nods, wipes his face uselessly. He turns to Edward, twirls the pistol by the trigger guard and offers the grip to him, smiling. Edward cannot reach for it. He is in no control of his body. He cannot even shout when he sees Hickey pushing himself up from the ground, twisting his arms like no human should. 

Edward locks gazes with Jopson.

If he could only work his jaw open to talk.

 _Behind you_.

He hears Le Vesconte cry out. He sees Hickey lurch. He senses the warmth of Jopson being drawn from him. 

It feels as if he was in a waking dream. An ocean of sensations all around, and him, paralyzed and drowning. 

Whatever this is, it is bigger than fear.

Bigger than him. 

He cannot move. Cannot see. The ringing in his ears overtakes everything. He is trapped in his skull, trying to get out, rush to help Jopson, but he cannot, he cannot. He screams inside and no sound comes. 

Le Vesconte grabs at him. Shouts in his face, his pupils blown with panic. Edward cannot hear him. Le Vesconte slaps him, hard enough that Edward stumbles into motion, his fear-seized limbs easing as he topples over, drops to his knees. He looks up, blinks, but the world is a blur, wrapped in a midnight mist, and through it, he can just make out the steep stairs, Jopson crawling up the steps, slow and laboured, his hair hanging into his face. Hickey seizes his ankle. Pulls him back into the hungry darkness which swallows his gravelly cry.

Edward jumps up and nearly falls, head heavy like lead. Le Vesconte catches him, hauls him away; Edward’s boots scramble on the ice, and he finds no footing. 

“Thomas!” he shouts, hoarse. 

“He’s gone,” Le Vesconte says; he is trembling violently, from the cold, from fear. Edward almost manages to stand before weakness grapples him again, pushes him off balance. Le Vesconte drags him towards safety and Edward lets him, feels his mind collapse and his heart break as he starts sobbing, mumbling some wordless gibberish about Jopson, Irving, horses, loss; he cannot fathom it, cannot conceive Jopson getting caught, fighting alone, and he should not be alone, Edward promised he would not be, he said he would help him, but he is useless and weak, he has been measured and found wanting, he is but a burden, he left Jopson and Jopson had to save himself then fall alone, and Le Vesconte is right, he is as good as dead, the monster cannot be killed, but Jopson, Jopson is living yet— 

“Let me go!” He thrashes in Le Vesconte’s grip. Le Vesconte grabs his nape, pushes him to a wall, and it is so, so very cold. It clings to his clothes, traps him in ice. He is but a bug in amber, stuck in his demise, just watching helplessly as his world melts away.

“Listen to me,” Le Vesconte hisses. “You’re in shock. You cannot help him; neither can I. We don’t know what kind of beast this is, how to fight it. We’re just giving him more meat to eat, don’t you see?” 

For a moment, Edward believes him. 

He hears a cry from below. It is Jopson. He whimpers in answer, the sound breaking free from his closed-off throat, his face wet with tears and snot. That whine is the sympathy of a monster. The wolf in him hurts more than a human, because wolves are never hopeless. 

What is a werewolf? A brute.

What is a werewolf? Everything he is not. 

He does not possess that savage strength. But it is within, is it not? Right now he may be too unsteady to carry a human body, but he has a beast that is stronger, braver, which wants to protect, serve. 

The monster is named Edward Little. 

He is choosing to let himself be free.

“Let me go,” he growls. It is not a human voice. Le Vesconte recoils in panic, aims the crossbow. Does not shoot. Edward falls to his hands and knees. Starts running on four feet. 

He can smell Jopson. As long as he can smell him, he knows where to find him. Down the stairs. His paws do not slip. Into the darkness. His fur is black: it hides him. The floor is freezing. The air starts glowing. The cellar is a cave of ice. Icicles hang like daggers. The frost crept everywhere. The green lights dance and whistle. 

He halts for a second to listen, ears perked and breath held. 

There. A throatless roar, the slash of claws. He runs past the meat hanging from hooks in blocks of ice, frozen shelves, like statues of ice, clutter and boxes. Spots the monster, kneeling above Jopson. There is blood on the snow, splattered around in a dizzying pattern. 

Edward stands up. Stands tall. He is both wolf and man. There is strength in both of them. What strength he has, it can be used to help. 

He races to Hickey, yanks him off Jopson by his hair. Hickey twists, scratches him; Edward throws him to the ground with force that would break the spine of a mortal. He wants revenge. He wants to sink his teeth into him, wants the ripe taste of blood filling his mouth; but his instincts pull him elsewhere, back to Jopson even before the fight is won, just to see that he is well.

There are claw marks across his chest, but the posture stays stopped their impact. He lays shivering, blood running from his bruised nose, his split, blue lips. Edward kneels above him, licks his face. Jopson scoffs, scrunches up his nose. “Took you a moment,” he says, voice ragged. 

Edward whimpers in answer. He will apologise later. He gets up to face Hickey, who is getting to his feet. His face is completely ruined. The red hair hangs around a bloody mess. He staggers forward blindly and Edward meets him, pulls him to the slippery ground. He knows how to wrestle a beast. He has been doing it since he turned into one. 

The first mistake is treating them as less than human. 

The combat is brutal. It is muscles and anger straining against each other, snapping teeth and claws that kill. Edward's ribs rebel and a dull pain throbs through his fist with every hit, but his body will not rein his will. His human nature has had control for far too long. Edward howls and the spirit roars. 

It sounds familiar. 

Bears make that sound. 

“Get back!” Jopson yells. He stands with his arm extended, blood dripping from his fingers. His eyes are completely white, shining in the glowing dark.

Edward obeys. Hickey trails him.

A heavy metal ladder falls forward as Jopson pulls it onto Hickey. The sound of bones snapping is like the ice cracking. Hickey’s neck is the last to give, trapped between two rungs. It crushes down like a guillotine, and Hickey’s head rolls forward.

Jopson drops his arm, breathing heavily. 

There is a gust of wind, almost like a sigh; a strange snow starts falling. Jopson stands in the flurry of it, hair flying and chest heaving. Edward goes to him, stepping over Hickey’s mutilated body, swoops him up; Jopson clings with his legs wrapped around his hips, arms over his shoulder. Edward holds him like a treasure, the most precious thing on Earth. 

Jopson puts his forehead to his.“It’s not finished,” he says, exhausted. 

“It’s finished for now,” Edward replies. “You did your best.” 

Jopson squeezes his eyes shut, chuckles. He has trouble taking compliments. “Make sure he’s not moving.” 

Edward peers at what is left of Hickey. He knew Jopson was strong; he did not know he had _this_ in him. “He’s not going anywhere,” he announces at length. “The spirit left.” 

“I never killed anybody.”

“He was already dead.”

“Technicalities.” Jopson clings on tighter, and Edward holds on. He is not letting go. 

“I came so close to leaving you to your fate. You must have been furious with me. I’m so sorry.” 

“I think you should take me somewhere warm and show me your palm.”

❦ 

There are still snowflakes in Jopson’s hair as they settle down to the fireplace in his room. They elect to sit on the ground, knees brushing. Jopson peels off the bandage carefully. Edward will never tire of watching the dance of his fingers, nimble but strong. They tremble slightly: Edward himself is jittery after the fight, all that transpired. Jopson traces each of Edward’s fingers with maddening caresses, maps out the mound of Venus, follows the treacherous line of his love life. He makes a soft sound, somewhere between a chuckle and a sob. 

“What?” Edward prompts, gentle. Jopson shakes his head, strokes Edward’s hand with a ticklish thumb. 

“See for yourself.” 

Edward stares into his palm dumbly. It is filthy, with blood dried in the wound the looking glass cut. There is a new scar, just a scratch, the blood fresh and red. It interrupts the line. “What does it mean?”

“New beginnings. We’ll know when it heals.” Jopson interlaces their fingers, leans in for a peck. It is almost chaste, like a first kiss. Edward does not push his luck: barely parts his lips. He is trying to take it all in, this moment stolen from fate: trying to memorize Jopson’s taste, the shape of his lips, his warm, soft skin. It is sticky with blood and grime. Edward laps at his cheeks, and Jopson scoffs just like he did in the cellar, in that dizzying moment where Edward almost thought him gone, except he was not _thinking_ , he was all instinct, and the beast is still with him, it is him. He licks Jopson’s face clean not minding whether it is considered _polite_ , because this would be worship in the woods, this would mean, _I want to know you, you are adored_. 

Jopson sinks his hands into Edward’s whiskers, guiding him closer. His breathing changes, less strained, little staccato gasps as Edward nips at his jaw, strokes his throat with his tongue. 

“Your teeth,” Jopson whispers. They have gotten a bit sharper; Edward traces the points of them over Jopson’s neck, sucks a bruise just above the neckerchief, marking Jopson his. He nuzzles at it, peers up at Jopson. 

“You must tell me how I look,” he says, “if I’m presentable, for we have no functioning looking glasses at our disposal.” 

Jopson laughs again, breathless. He looks so handsome like this; he should be laughing always, showing his darling dimples, the lines in the corners of his eyes; and what eyes—they are a deep green in the orange light. 

“Not much is changed,” Jopson says, cupping Edward’s face still. He is wearing his silver ring: Edward does not feel it burning. “Your eyes are yellow, however; you told me to beware them.” 

“Are you scared?” 

“Not at all; I suppose power recognises power.”

Edward hums his agreement, kisses Jopson’s neck again. It makes him moan; makes his grip tighten in Edward’s whiskers, so he does it again. “Back in the cellar,” he whispers against his spit-wet skin, “you were like the angel of destruction.” 

Jopson laughs; the sound turns into a gasp as Edward sucks at the bruise. “I don’t suppose— _oh_ —that angels have my accent.” 

“I’m enamored with your accent,” Edward says. He starts to work the neckerchief’s knot free with his teeth. “Give me my name.” 

“Edward,” Jopson pants. Edward climbs into his lap, for he needs to be closer to undress him proper. He starts working on the buttons of his torn waistcoat as he tastes his bared neck, reveling in the jump of Jopson’s pulse, every hitch of his breath. 

Breathing is painful for Edward still, but a more urgent ache presses him on. He rubs his hard cock over Jopson’s belly. “Thomas,” he says, voice a growl. “Will you get naked for me, sweet?” 

“I’d prefer to keep the shirt and the posture stays on today,” Jopson says, “but anything else—take them off; take me!”

Edward hooks his thumbs under the braces, pushes them off Jopson’s shoulders. Kisses his neck as Jopson arches: his scent is exquisite, rich and hot. He seeks out the brass buttons of his trousers, drops the front. Slides his hand in, gropes his groin. Jopson jerks, his hips twitching up as Edward hooks his fingers, makes him gasp. 

“Strip,” Jopson breathes. “It’s not fair, get undressed as well—I’ve been thinking about it...well, since I first saw you, to be fair, but especially this morning, my word, Edward, you must let me see you, you must—” 

“Undress me, then,” Edward orders. He starts moving his fingers, like Jopson showed him that very first evening. He is curious to see if Jopson can still concentrate on his task like this: but of course he can—he peels off all layers from Edward’s torso, then pushes him to his back. There is a sheepskin rug there: Edward sinks into it pleasantly, watches Jopson quickly take off his own shoes and trousers, climb atop Edward. He is agonisingly hard, but Jopson ignores his prick for the moment. He straddles his hips and scratches at his chest, feeling out the soft hair there. He bends to suck on a hard nipple, making Edward jab his hips. 

“I knew it,” Jopson whispers. Kisses it again, until it is sloppy-wet, and caresses lower; he lays his palm over the wolf-scar, five wide stripes on Edward’s bruised side. “Is it all right to touch this?” 

“I’ve been feeling better about it as recently as half an hour ago.” 

“How about your ribs?” 

“I shall think some other body part requires your immediate attention.” 

Jopson arches his eyebrows. Pushes his bare buttocks back, so they rub over Edward’s straining cock. “This thing?” 

“Well observed.” 

“You want to put it in me?” 

Edward licks his lips. He wants it so much it overpowers him. Jopson looks like a vision straddling him triumphantly, with that coy look in his eyes Edward so dearly missed, which disarmed him in the carriage so completely, but then got overshadowed with apprehension, guilt. Oh, it is hard to believe they can have this: but they are both choosing to indulge, to please. Edward grabs Jopson’s hips and makes him grind down harder, over and over again, showing him exactly what Edward needs. They lock gazes: Jopson’s eyelids are drooping with bliss, his mouth open as he rides Edward’s clothed cock. 

“I will fuck you like you have never been fucked before,” Edward growls. “Stuff you full.” 

“Is it very big?” Jopson asks, tone somewhere between hopeful and tentative. 

“I shall think a disciplined man such as yourself could handle it fairly well.” 

Jopson circles his bum, trying to feel out the exact shape of Edward’s prick. He moves with divine grace, the firelight dancing on his face. “It’s not quite ordinary, is it?” 

“Never had complaints; money is the best muzzle for dirty secrets. I can please you in other ways, if you’d prefer that.”

“No,” Jopson says sternly, climbs off him. He sits back on his heels, arranging his shirt fastidiously, eyes trained on the considerable bulge trapped in Edward’s trousers. “Show me, please,” he asks. 

Edward reaches down obediently, undoes the buttons and the front. He usually takes care not to get quite so erect before he reveals himself, so the foreskin hides his secret: his rentboys do not get a good look before he buries his prick in them, and then it is mostly the size that is remarked upon. He never had his cock scrutinized like this before: it makes him flush, to be judged and evaluated, hoping that Jopson will not find him monstrous, or undesirable, lacking in any way.

Jopson’s eyes widen. For a moment, Edward tenses, but Jopson reaches out with reverence, touches the pointed, wet tip shaped like an arrowhead. “Look at you, beautiful,” he whispers, tracing down the ridges that could be mistaken for prominent veins, makes a delighted little sound at the back of his throat as he locates the knot at the base. He strokes it with his knuckles; Edward shudders, sucks in a sharp breath: his desire is too intense to bear; he needs tightness and heat promptly. “May I taste it, please?” Jopson asks; oh, he is a dream! 

“I believe you have earned it,” Edward says, adjusting his cock in invitation. “Whatever you wish: take your reward.” 

Jopson climbs back over him, this time facing away as he straddles his chest, mindful of his injuries. He bends down to take him into his mouth, thus revealing his delectable bum. Edward takes two handfuls and squeezes while Jopson sucks on the tip. It takes all of Edward’s willpower not to buck up his hips. Jopson tastes him as if he was chasing honey, with little licks of his curled tongue, humming in delight. He swallows him in deeper, pushing his petite arse into Edward’s palms at the same time. Edward spreads his cheeks apart and feels him moan around his cock. 

“Can I taste you in turn?” he asks; he wants to return just a fraction of the rapturous sensation and prepare Jopson for his prick. The answer is enthusiastic: Jopson presses back eagerly, so all Edward has to do is get up on his elbows, lick over that tight ring of muscle. Jopson makes a sound again, a low rumble in his throat that pulsates around Edward’s cock. Jopson pulls back, but does not let go, not yet, curls his fingers around the knot and sinks down, bobbing his head. Edward spells out his gratitude with the tip of his tongue, pushes deeper inside. 

Admittedly, this was not how he envisioned the events. He would have been pleased to take Jopson in a bed, as it is proper, and focus the activities on the main event. He tends to be practical, for he is too often in a hurry; time is not exactly on their side now either—but it feels all the more reason to spoil Jopson, give him his utmost. He will not think him depraved: they hunger for the same things. 

“I want you inside,” Jopson pleads. “Please, may I have you, I wish to be filled and cannot wait a moment longer—” 

Edward swats his bum, watches it jiggle. “Grab us some oil then; I’m too big to fuck you with only my spit.” 

Jopson makes a noise of protest, grabs Edward’s prick tight and swallows it up. Oh, how he must have been starving for it, the poor thing! He only pulls back a second, to extend his hand. Edward feels his drool drip down the length of his cock and whines, thrusting his hips up to fuck back into Jopson’s craving mouth. Jopson takes him in devotedly, and oh, the oil can wait, even if the world is ending, for Edward does not want to interrupt this, the clench of that slick heat, Jopson’s hard palate rubbing over the head as he swallows him deeper, deeper still. 

Edward almost misses the moment when a bottle of oil flies to Jopson’s extended hand, and he picks it off the aether as if it was perfectly ordinary to summon one’s belongings thus. How Edward adores him: he takes the oil and lubes him up liberally, presses a thick finger in, then a second follows closely, until Jopson is moaning with it. He pulls off Edward’s cock to catch his breath, his hand moving over the shaft, tight and fast. Edward nudges at the seal of his lips with the tip. 

“Can you keep it warm and wet a little longer, love?” he says. “Can you do that? Shall I give you a moment?”

“Don’t let’s stop,” Jopson begs. “I will have to train my jaw for you: you stretch me so!” He licks at him, then keens as Edward inserts another finger. “That’s it; oh, yes; I feel you everywhere, from my mouth to—ahh!” 

Edward inserts his tongue between his thrusting fingers. Jopson falls over, burying his head into Edward’s thigh as he cries out, pleading for more, words so slurred they are barely English anymore. Edward spreads his arse to inspect if he is truly ready: finds him gaping and greedy, and so slick it is dripping over Edward’s chest. He smacks his firm bum, sharper this time, urging him to stand. Jopson climbs off him on his hands and knees, overcome and trembling. Edward picks him up easily; Jopson clasps his hips with his thighs, holds onto his neck. Edward searches his gaze before he licks at his face, laps up the fluids smeared over his chin, tasting his own headiness. 

The goal is the bed: they set out valiantly, but Jopson’s thighs are so slippery with oil Edward fights to find leverage, and besides, his open trousers are sliding down. He grunts, pushes Jopson against the wall, just until he steps out of his boots and gets rid of his remaining clothing. Jopson keeps interrupting with thirsty kisses, and Edward is all too happy to return them until he stands completely naked, holding Jopson in his ragged shirt, open at the collar, and all at once, the bed seems too far. 

“Are you ready for me, Thomas?” he asks, nipping at his chin. Jopson claws at his back, pulling him closer, his legs spread open, but Edward must hear the answer. “Do you want to have me?” 

“I don’t just want to have you,” Jopson says, eyes lightning-bright and bitten lips blood-red. “I want us to mate.” 

Edward bites down on his throat, just above the jugular, and stabs his cock inside. Jopson shouts, hoarse; the sound breaks as Edward thrusts in again, not wasting a moment. Jopson sways forward and tears into his shoulder with his teeth, muffling his yells before they summon company. They nearly trip over; Edward slams a hand to the wall to balance them, holds Jopson’s back and yanks him down the full length of his ridged cock. He will not make him take the knot; not until he is finished; oh, it must be plenty already—he can feel Jopson’s stretched out rim pulse around his prick. Jopson puts his forehead to his, and after a sharp twist emits a sound so miserable it makes both of them grin, wide, all teeth. 

“Are you enjoying yourself?” Edward prompts, grinding in deep. 

Jopson chews on his lips as he peers at him. “I won’t be sitting for a week,” he notes cheerfully. 

Edward ruts into him, brutal and vicious with a determined frown to make Jopson laugh. Jopson throws his head back and works a hand between them to touch himself; Edward is mesmerised by the movement of his fingers, and races to follow the rhythm Jopson sets. 

“Edward, you’re a menace,” Jopson pants. “I never had a lover like you; never will; oh, you’ll ruin me for everybody!” 

“I wish to keep you intact,” Edward confesses. 

Jopson squeezes around his girth pointedly. “Wretched lies,” he says. Edward smiles at him shyly, even as he fucks him harder, adds a twist of his hips that makes Jopson bite his lips to muffle a scream. 

He keeps fucking him just so, until hubris has its due: just one jab sharper than the rest and his ribs complain with a flare of pain. He winces visibly; Jopson peers at him with concern. 

“Bed,” Edward grits. He keeps Jopson pinned on his cock as he walks them there with as much grace as he can muster, then pulls out with regret and throws him on the mattress. He surveys his bounty before he would rejoin him, Jopson all flushed and panting, hair tousled, legs eagerly spread and a tireless hand working between them.

“What a pretty picture,” Edward remarks, giving his cock a languid stroke. “I should get you painted.”

“And I, you; oh, nobody would even believe me if I told them of today!”

“What would you tell them, pray?” 

“Werewolf came to ravish me,” Jopson says, opening his legs wider. “Only he wasn’t just a beast, he was a man too, a good man—”

“That’s an embellishment.”

“A good lay,” Jopson adds with a wink. He is far too charming: Edward comes to him as if pulled, as if he were merely obeying the laws of magnetism. He fits into him perfectly; every inch of his prick he presses back in. Jopson’s eyes roll up as if in a trance, his hand moves faster. Edward grabs one of his legs and pushes it up toward his chest to give him more room to move; a better angle. “Oh dear,” Jopson pants, “you’re ah, so deep you feel like a part of me—”

“I am,” Edward answers, ardent. His entire length is buried within, and he keeps thrusting vigorously, a rite of relish. Jopson shall never again be fucked by aspirant beginners; he is Edward’s as Edward is his, and he shall make Jopson’s pleasure his profession. “If you kept me,” he says, “I would fuck you like this whenever you wish; you’d just have to click your tongue and I would come running. I want to kneel at your heel as you consult your cards, wait in your bed while you deal with clients, fill you up whenever you need to be filled.” He punctuates the sentence with a more forceful jab, feels Jopson’s heat give, and give and give: he is welcome in his body; he is at home here. 

“Wouldn’t it be wrong of me,” Jopson says, “to tame such a splendid creature as yourself?” 

Edward looks down at him, this man who sees him like he has never been seen, whom he craves like he never craved anything, not even blackened blood in the moonlight or the taste of flesh.

“I wouldn’t be tame,” he swears. “I would be your wild thing, you my handler; I know you’d treat me well, wouldn’t you, Thomas?” 

“I would try my best,” Jopson says, cradling his nape to pull him closer. “I could do that; I will.” 

Edward buries his face in the croon of his neck with a soft growl, almost like a sob. He takes in his darling scent, heavy on his tongue, clean sweat and the tang of want. His hips keep twitching up into Jopson’s exquisite heat as he rubs his face over his bruised skin, marking him his. Their scent mingles; they are one body, one desire; and when Edward spills inside of him, he seals the promise with ecstasy. 

Jopson moans and clenches around him as his come fills him; there is so much of it some squeezes out, drips down Edward’s throbbing length. He searches Jopson’s clouded gaze, and presses the knot in. Jopson tries to clench around it, but he cannot: he is stretched too wide. His mouth falls open as he stares at Edward in bewilderment.

“Can you feel me swelling within?” Edward whispers, pushes back Jopson’s hair. Keeps his fist in there as he claims his lips in an indulgent kiss. He cannot even move anymore: he is stuck inside, stuffing Jopson full.

“Bloody hell,” Jopson mouths, rubbing himself so fast the back of his hand starts chafing against Edward’s stomach. Edward kisses him again, smiling, sluggish with his climax. He pulls back to admire his features, contorting with pleasure. Jopson’s body thrashes underneath him, then he kicks Edward’s back with the leg hooked over his shoulder, and Edward thinks proudly that he made Jopson into this violent thing, his prim and proper master ravished by pleasure. 

He tugs at his hair, then twists harder. Jopson cries out, soundless, arching his long neck. He shakes and trembles pinned on Edward’s cock, then all at once, he stills. His leg slides down Edward’s arm, his head lolls to the side. His cheeks are fetchingly flushed; Edward cannot resist kissing them. “You are very silent when you come,” he notes. “Gives me ideas.” 

“I’m usually silent throughout,” Jopson mumbles, “when I’m not being ravaged by werewolves with remarkable talents, that is.” He attempts to squeeze around Edward again; it is barely felt. “Oh God, will you just stay hard?”

“For a while,” Edward admits.

“You must excuse me for taking the opportunity, then,” Jopson says, and slides his hand back between his legs.

❦ 

Jopson is as presentable as ever after a quick wash and fresh shirt; the same cannot be said for Edward. As they enter the parlour, he feels as if it is all too evident what transpired. His change in demeanor must be noted, the confidence of his walk, but his shagginess too: his hair is too long to comb into any respectable fashion, although he suspects Jopson prefers it like this: his clever fingers left Edward’s hair much tousled. There is certainly a knowing glint in Le Vesconte’s eyes, which makes Edward flush. 

“I must apologise,” Le Vesconte says, “for leaving you to your fate; but it would seem you stood your ground: by the time we returned, all we found was the headless corpse. A job well done, Mr. Little.”

“It was Mr. Jopson’s doing,” Edward admits. Le Vesconte measures Jopson with a newfound respect and apprehension. 

“Has the spirit been located?” Jopson asks, not noting the attention. He throws back the tails of his coat primly and takes his seat by Fitzjames on the divan. 

“Not yet,” Fitzjames mumbles around his pipe. “We’ve been on alert.” 

Edward stands awkwardly until Jopson pats the cushion next to him. Silver glints: Jopson started wearing Edward’s ring on his left hand. Edward sits as instructed, feeling safe for a moment in the closeness of his betrothed. 

“John?” he inquires. Looking around the trashed parlour is like awakening from a pleasant dream to calls of catastrophe. It documents his desperation, grief and rage. Irving died because of him: nothing will fix that. If only he had been braver sooner—

“We lay him to rest in his room,” Hodgson reports from the armchair. “He’d want a proper funeral; we will take him back with us.” 

“Banish the spirit,” Le Vesconte joins him, “and hope it takes the fog with it.” 

“It’ll be hard to exile,” Jopson says, pulling out his cigarette case. Edward catches his own reflection in it. _Oh_. The eyes are amber now, not the burning yellow he saw in the mirror, but the change is striking still. No wonder everybody is staring. 

“We were hoping you might have a plan,” Hodgson says, measured. 

Jopson puts a cigarette to his lips; Edward searches for matches to light it for him. “It’s a living thing, not the soul of the deceased,” Jopson explains. “My expertise fails me; but it must have a reason to stay, even with the warlock dead.”

“Where could it be?” Hodgson wonders. 

There’s a piercing cry from upstairs.

“There’s your answer,” Edward mutters. 

Fitzjames jumps to his feet. “Francis,” he breathes, and runs to the door. As he dashes out, and Jopson leaps to action too, dropping the cigarette. Edward grabs his arm, pulls him back. 

“Listen,” he says. He knows what a man sounds like when he is in pain: it was not that. There are hasty steps, heavier than they should be, and the sound of Fitzjames running across the marble floor, shoes skidding. 

_“Francis! What the hell, are you well—”_

Ragged breathing. 

_“Don’t go in there—”_

Crozier rushing downstairs. He is carrying something heavy. 

_“Is it—”_

_“Yes.”_

He is not injured judging by his steps, but God, he sounds scared.

_“Are you certain—”_

A door creaks open on the upper floor. There is a song, hummed low. 

Jopson strains in Edward’s grip, but does not move away. He trusts him: trusts his instincts; trusts the wolf to protect the whole pack. Edward’s muscles are taut, his senses sharp like claws. Breathing is difficult; but it is on account of his injury, not anxiety. He can sense the disquiet spread, but for once, he feels prepared to face what may come. 

Fitzjames enters, grim and much perturbed; he holds the door open for Crozier, who is carrying Blanky on his back.

“You’ll murder me yet,” Blanky complains. Jopson moves to give up his seat.

“You saw what I saw!” Crozier grits, setting him down. Blanky’s face is ashen, but his grin is ever-present. He is looking out to the hallway with an air of expectation or perhaps challenge. 

“Is there a point in closing the door?” Fitzjames asks calmly. 

“Leave it,” Crozier says. “Let it come.” He walks to the cellarette, and pulls a face when he finds it upturned, all the bottles smashed. 

The lullaby is louder now. Just at the other side of the wall. 

“Where’s Graham?” Le Vesconte demands, gaze jumping about. “Did you leave him alone, asleep?” 

“He’s very much awake now,” Crozier says. “And he’s not alone, no.” 

Gore walks through the door. 

Edward springs up, and now it is Jopson who holds him back, his grip tight on his shoulder. 

Gore looks like a ravaged saint, his gold hair wild, nightshirt floating. He carries the wind: snow surrounds him. He looks around with empty eyes, head tilted at a strange angle. Scowls, and reaches for the copper rod probing his skull. 

“Don’t!” Le Vesconte cries out. “Leave him be, you’ll kill him!” 

The spirit forces Gore’s hand. The rod slips out with a sickening sound, clatters to the floor. 

Fitzjames locks the door. 

Gore snaps his neck towards the sound. His fingers move; he is deep in thought. 

“Nobody attack it,” Crozier says. “Don’t raise your voice. Don’t make any sudden movements.” 

“I highly doubt we could spook it,” Hodgson says, voice a tremble as he sinks deeper into the armchair, attempting to become one with the furniture. 

Crozier arches an eyebrow. “Look at it. It’s scared already.” 

Gore turns around, taking in the room. Edward does not think it looks afraid: confused, more likely. As if it could not see clearly through Hickey’s mania, and is perceiving the company for the first time. 

_Dis-moi ce que tu manges_.

Its eyes lock onto Edward and Jopson through the snowfall. The pale lips twist into the approximation of a smile. The expression is not human, but it has a sentiment that is trying to be conveyed. Edward’s hair stands on an end and he is ready to fight, Crozier’s warning be damned, but as chilling as the smile is, it is different from Hickey’s perpetual grin, it is— 

“It looks glad,” Jopson says, “that Mr. Hickey is dead.”

“Graham,” Le Vesconte pleads, “I know you’re still in there, somewhere; fight this monster—”

“Don’t,” Crozier interrupts. He steps forward, hands linked behind his back. He faces the beast. Gore looks at him vacantly. (What if there is nothing to plead with? What if this sudden serenity is a strategy? What if Edward is mistaken, and the men it possesses have no influence on the creature?) “Mr. Gore, I know it must be terribly difficult, but I need you to listen. The spirit resides in you; you may fight it and be consumed, or let it talk through you. Can you talk?” 

Gore growls, low in its throat, a pained, dry sound. 

Edward catches Fitzjames glance: he has never seen him this frightened. Beasts are easy to battle, Edward reasons. Creatures such as this are far more difficult; oh, he knows. He tilts his chin towards it as it bares its teeth— _shall I try to overpower it_? 

Fitzjames shakes his head, turns to Crozier, who takes a tentative step back, but remains calm and controlled. He commands the room with his presence, motionless in the fury of the snowstorm; a speck of a human figure facing off the ire of nature. 

“It may be difficult to talk,” he acknowledges, raising his voice but keeping it gentle. “I gather you aren’t used to human throats. I just wish to know what it is you want.” 

Edward is not convinced the thing understands him at all; Gore might; in any case, the creature steps forward, dragging Gore’s body along. Its shoulder hits Crozier, nearly tipping him off-balance, but it does not seem to note it. It walks to the empty painting—if such a horrific movement can be called walking: Gore’s head is pushed forward, the shoulders rounded, the arms hanging, useless. It is an imitation of human movement from a disinterested observer; Gore’s body is jostled like a cage. The white canvas frames his figure as he rolls his neck right, left, attempting speech again. _Something_ is muttered; it is Gore’s voice, but near unrecognisable. He sounds as if he is fathoms away, at the bottom of the frozen sea. 

“I’m embarrassed to even point it out,” Fitzjames says, “but the snow is a clue.” 

Gore taps at the canvas, once, sharp; attempts to draw something with its nails, but the movement is not controlled enough. A jagged line: a river, or the range of mountains, perhaps. 

“Well,” Blanky says, “Never played charades with a beast. First time for everything.” 

Gore makes another gurgling sound— _nnvt_. 

“What was that?” Crozier asks. He looks at the painting as if he could glance beyond the eternal whiteness, spot an answer there. 

“Nnvt,” Gore repeats. 

Crozier pales. He turns slowly, and Edward’s heart skips a beat when Crozier looks directly at him. _Why me_ , he thinks, _why does it have to be me when I don’t know anything, when that beast murdered Irving (did it? was it compelled by Hickey’s lingering resentment?), when, when—_

Oh, he needs to be stronger.

He is shielding Jopson with his body, but his mind must be steady if he is to protect him. Fear is useful; fear tells him when to run ( _right now, right now_ ), but it cannot cloud his judgement, cannot chip away at his morality, must not separate him from those he holds dear. There will not be a day—there will not be a moment—when it will not be a struggle to rein in his panic; but he must keep choosing to do it. 

“Mr. Little,” Crozier says meaningfully, “what colour was the light you saw in the cellar?” 

“Green,” Edward answers simply, and Crozier’s face crumbles. He passes a hand over his mouth, turns back to Gore. 

The room is veiled in frost. 

“Nunavut,” Crozier says; Gore’s head snaps up, its pale eyes wide. “You’re from Nunavut; Christ, you’re a long way from home.”

Gore’s mouth twists into a smile again.

“Tusâtsialaugit,” it says. It goes about speech the wrong way, pronouncing the words when it is breathing in, so it sounds like the ice creaking. “Akumigokaven? Akumik; tuvailikkuk, aputi aulittuk. Tuavi!”

“ _Oh_ ,” Blanky gasps, sits up taller and says something halting in answer. 

Jopson presses closer to Edward. “I’m a fool,” he says. “Such a fool, trying to connect to it in English; and I thought the spirit board spelt gibberish—it was a language.”

“It wants to go home,” Crozier translates, gobsmacked. Gore turns towards the room, talking on, probably under the false impression that all present understand it now that it speaks a human tongue. There is something heartbreakingly eager in its gaze, assured that its meaning is now clear, its voice heard. 

“Is it a he or she?” Edward asks Blanky, which is not his most pressing concern, but it is only polite to inquire.

“I’m afraid there aren’t gendered pronouns in Inuktitut,” Blanky says, scratches at his beard. “Should’ve tried to reason with them before they took my leg, eh?” 

“They were stolen from their motherland,” Crozier interprets. “Brought here, dormant in a vessel or container of some kind. Then they were awoken by—ah, I’m not certain of the expression they used—”

“Usurper-shaman,” Blanky interjects. “We can safely assume that’s our Mr. Hickey.” 

“He tried to control them; they were furious in his service, but they were weak. The spell didn’t give them muscles. They were weak indeed and starving but Mr. Hickey started feeding them. It grew stronger, and gained independence when Mr. Hickey was dead—possessed his flesh—but his soul was poisonous—” Crozier chuckles. “They like Mr. Gore better.”

“Tell them to spit out my friend, please,” Le Vesconte asks faintly. 

Crozier says something in Inuktitut which Edward hopes not to be a direct translation. He leans against Jopson, supporting his weight on him; Jopson is steady; he holds him as Edward watches the painting, the blinding white of it and the snow falling. _Home_ , they called it. Every creature needs a shelter; somewhere safe and hidden.

“They need their—I don’t know the word, I assume it’s something where the spirit is contained—the vessel, they’re looking for it; they cannot leave without it.” 

“I know where it is,” Edward says, surprising even himself: but it seems evident—his mind is filling in many blanks, and he is fairly certain his deduction is solid. He parts from Jopson with a quick kiss on his cheek (he is starting to suspect they will not be judged for their public affinity), stalks across the parlour wordlessly and feels some smug satisfaction as he passes a baffled Fitzjames. Would it not be something, to outwit a detective? 

He walks through the destroyed rooms, his goal clear in mind. His notions of the creature are rather complex. Irving is dead: he is unclear to what extent they are responsible for it; who hurt Jopson; whom he battled. One thing is undoubtable: the creature was never meant to be here. He is a hostage of England, and Edward shall break the chains—if for nothing else, then so they can cause no more harm in captivity. 

The taxidermy room is in a frightful state. This is where he walked out on Jopson, left him to a fate he knew to be perilous. The dead animals hold Edward in the gleam of his glass eye, resenting his fear and rage—or perhaps they recognise a kindred soul within.

Flocks of birds are suspended on wires, beheaded big game is nailed to the walls, and goats stand around with their eerie stare. He goes straight to a mounted bear, facing it bravely. It is grinning at him. He has a chance to amend his wrongdoings if he gets this one thing right. He heard the creature roar in the cellar. He recognised the sound: this must be its true form. The bear is posed to attack, jaw open to a soundless cry.

Something is not right with it. 

It takes Edward a moment to remember that polar bears don white fur. He scowls at the profoundly English bear, discontented. He was so sure he made the right deductions, but why would he solve— 

(His gaze drops to the ground.)

—anything. 

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he mumbles, and crouches down to pick up a little wooden token. He turns it around in his scarred hands: he noted it in the first few hours of his visit, thought it _crude_ and _childish_. How wrong he had been! It just does not belong here. The bear has a too-long neck, and an odd set to its head. It gives him chills, but he can see that it was carved by a loving hand. Their creature is missed; they are expected back. 

He cradles the token in his palms, as if he was carrying water, or something just as prone to slipping away, and hurries back to the parlour. He can hear Blanky and the visitor deep in conversation. Wonders, idly, why would a vampire hunter speak the language; what sort of ancient things sleep in the ice, exactly. He decides he would rather remain ignorant. He hands the token to Crozier, too spooked to give it to Gore himself. Returns to Jopson with his tail between his legs; gets a fond scratch under his jaw. 

“Good find, you clever thing,” Jopson whispers. Edward rarely thinks of himself as particularly clever; he beams at the praise, and nearly misses the moment when Crozier offers up the token on his palm and says something that makes Blanky groan.

“Do I want to know?” Fitzjames asks. 

“He says he’ll give it to him in exchange for the souls they’ve eaten...Frank, just hand it over, what the hell is your plan if they refuse, eh?” 

Gore takes the token from Crozier, presses it to their heart while explaining something Edward has no hope to discern. They twist their head and look at Jopson as they keep talking, low and hurried, heaving still. The red wound the rod left is like a third eye on their forehead, watching them unblinking. Edward is wondering if Gore lives. 

Crozier motions for Jopson, who steps forward without hesitation. Edward whines in his throat, but he must let him go. He has seen his strength; Jopson is capable, and a good man. Edward must not stand in his way, ever. 

Jopson walks through the gathering ice and snow, his coat swimming in the wind and dark hair swirling. He lets Crozier grab his shoulder and steer him closer to Gore, who is regarding him with a strange expression, something almost merciful: the way a god may regard a particularly nosy mortal. 

“They said,” Francis interprets, “that they can only give back the recently consumed, but they refuse to return Mr. Hickey, and I’m afraid Mr. Gibson is staying with him. When Mr. Irving’s ghost is released—” (Edward takes a sharp breath, and welcomes the pang in his ribs) “—you must contain him so he doesn’t become a wandering, stray spirit. He will remain dead, but his soul won’t be trapped anymore. Can you help?” 

“Of course,” Jopson says with the mild politeness of someone who just agreed to an invitation for tea, not some rite of near-necromancy. He holds up his chin bravely; Edward has never admired him more. He is like an altar boy waiting for benediction. The creature cups his chin in Gore’s hand, makes him open his mouth, tongue extended. Their shadow seems to grow. It is not a human form: it is shaped like a bear, but it is much bigger, the shadow starker. 

Snow falls, muffled, distant. For a moment, all is frozen.

There is no sudden movement, no lights, no violence—and no kiss either, which Edward has started to silently anticipate and dread. The creature hums their lullaby, leans closer to Jopson, and exhales a soft breath into his mouth. 

Jopson staggers back as if knocked over by a wind; Gore collapses in the same blink. The token falls to the ground with a hollow sound. 

Edward rushes to Jopson. He is bent over and holding his hand over his mouth and scowls, like he swallowed something sour. “I need your knife, darling,” he says, voice ragged; his eyes roll back. Edward catches him as he sways forward, holds his trembling frame fast. “ _I must note that I resent the notion of being locked in there_ ,” Irving mumbles into Edward’s chest. _“There’s been enough violence.”_

Hearing Jopson speak in Irving’s voice is not an experience Edward ever expected or wanted to have, and yet— 

“Is your opinion on ghosts altered?” Edward teases; if he sounds a bit teary, Irving will forgive him. Jopson’s eyes clear as he blinks up at him—blue, fond but unamused—then Irving takes over again. 

“ _Show some respect for the dead_.”

From the corner of his eye, Edward can see Crozier and Le Vesconte help Gore sit. He looks confused, lost, and in considerable pain: whimpering and afraid, but he is living. 

“I will set you free once we leave,” Jopson promises, straightening up but holding onto Edward’s lapels still. “You may haunt your grave or pass over the veil; whatever you wish. If you don’t like the knife, I can lock you in something of your choosing.” 

“I could fetch you your Bible,” Edward offers. 

“ _The knife is fine_ ,” Irving says. “ _Oh, my brothers; what I saw in death! There was nothing but darkness_.”

❦ 

The snow melts but the fog is slower to disperse. It rolls off the island like choking smoke. Fitzjames sets out with a torch. What remains of Hickey waits on a pyre: flesh, bone, wood, then ashes. 

The flames burn high, like the fire of an ancient lighthouse.

Something descends from the dark sky. 

It is an albatross. 

❦

Edward has never been fond of doctors. He is not technically hiding from Dr. Goodsir, but he might have taken cover as a precaution. Jopson finds him, of course, which was bound to happen, for Edward felt safest in his betrothed’s bedroom. 

“Come now,” Jopson urges, peering under the bed where Edward has taken residence. “Let him look at your ribs.” 

“What for? He’s not even a real doctor. He’s an occult naturalist.” 

“He’s brought company.”

Edward remains unconvinced. If Irving could still talk, he might agree. He is currently possessing the knife Edward has carefully packed away in his luggage, but has ambitious plans about the haunting of St. Paul’s Cathedral. 

It seems absurd, that they might make it back home. 

“Edward, sweet,” Jopson pleads. “I must confess I feel rather guilty for exercising you in your state; let yourself be examined for my sake, please, so that I know you’re safe.” 

Edward pokes his nose out from under the bed, then extends a hand to pat Jopson’s knees reassuringly. “You have nothing to feel guilty over,” he says. 

“Neither do you,” Jopson says, soft. “Let him look at you.” 

Reluctantly, Edward climbs out. He is rather dusty and still bruised and grimy. It feels apt. He is no gentleman—he is what he is. The doctors may probe at him the whole day, but they will not be able to name him. Does that make him a freak? He had always thought that was the case—but the admiration in Jopson’s eyes tells him something else. He wastes no time neatening Edward up, and his hands linger, playing with Edward’s lapels.

“Maybe the only medication I need is the balm of your kiss,” Edward wagers. He puts his forehead to Jopson’s, prods him with his nose; a charmed laugh is earned. 

“You shall get a kiss as a reward,” Jopson announces. “One kiss for every minute endured—how does that sound?” 

Edward makes an approving grunt, and lets Jopson lead the way when he offers his arm. Linked thus, Edward feels much more steady. He walks with a proud gait to be becoming of Jopson’s company, head held high and posture immaculate. 

The house seems bleary. The wounded passageway slumbers in the shadows; no floor creaks; no wind whistles. Arbor Pale Hall rests, retiring to itself, losing consciousness. 

Edward hesitates a moment before stepping into the parlour: too much has happened there. He is not quite ready to face what new horrors and wonders might be revealed; but when they enter, it is to a tranquil scene. Crozier is in his usual place, looking out of the window at the vanishing fog. The albatross is perched on his extended hand; they survey the weather together. Fitzjames is close, talking in hushed tones. Blanky is in Dr. Mcdonald’s care—Edward is relieved to see him here. Dr. Goodsir is making Gore follow the movement of a pointed finger and talk as he sits wrapped in a quilt. 

“ _Our graves that hide us from the searching sun are like drawn curtains when the play is done,”_ Gore recites. _“Thus march we playing to our latest rest, only we die in earnest—that’s no jest._ ” He flashes a shy smile as he finishes, and blinks. 

“Brilliant,” Goodsir praises. “Not only is your speech unhalting, but you haven’t lost your acting skills.” 

“So he sustained no brain damage?” Le Vesconte asks, his hand on Gore’s shoulder.

“Well, he most certainly did—but it doesn’t seem to be compromising his cognitive abilities; see, it’s been theorised that the frontal lobe—”

“There you are,” a female voice sounds. A richly dressed woman with fair hair steps in front of Edward. She is in a cape and bonnet, possibly to show that she is in a considerable hurry. She grabs Edward’s arm with no hesitation, and steers him towards an armchair. “I’m Sophia Cracroft, my pleasure. Broken ribs, yes?” 

Edward looks at Jopson for help, who follows them with no apparent sign of worry. Cracroft makes Edward sit, and he looks her over once again: she is wearing a strange belt with leather satchels, and smells of herbs. 

“Pardon, ma’am—might you be a witch?” he asks as Sophia presses a hand over his ribs; he hisses. 

“I prefer the term cunningwoman. Francis, love, a moment?” 

“You’re in good hands,” Jopson assures Edward. “Miss Cracroft excels at the Craft.” 

Edward refrains from mentioning that the Craft is banned, and nods curtly, biting his lips.

“How can I help?” Crozier steps up to them. 

“Give us your belt,” Cracroft asks, then peers at Edward. “It will hurt a bit.” 

Crozier obeys with a slightly embarrassed expression; he turns away decently and notes, “I haven’t thanked you yet for coming, Sophy, and on such short notice.” 

“You have a spectacular talent of getting yourself in trouble,” Cracroft says. She places the belt between Edward’s teeth, who glares at Jopson, alarmed. Jopson takes his hand and squeezes it with the promise of more than kisses if he makes it through. “It was your turn to look after him,” Cracroft chides Fitzjames. 

He holds up his hands. “I tried my best; at first glance, this arrangement merely seemed to be a tame little mystery.” 

“If you knew it to be life-threatening, would you have taken him along?” 

“Probably.” 

“You’ll put me in an early grave,” Cracroft sighs fondly, getting some sharp-scented flowers from one of the pouches. She rubs them over her palms, then slides her hands under Edward’s shirt. 

It does hurt. 

“Oh,” Cracroft says. “Your healing is more advanced than I would’ve thought. However, I’d suggest wearing posture stays until the injury completely repairs .” 

Jopson beams brightly. 

Edward’s ribs feel like they are made of melting iron, and he may have been trained to beware witches, but he feels oddly safe; he is surrounded by friends—Crozier looks at him with fatherly benevolence, Fitzjames with his usual curiosity—but then Goodsir enters the picture.

Edward flinches. 

“I don’t mean to intrude,” Goodsir explains. “Make a sound if you don’t wish me to be here—I heard of your case and find it fascinating. If there’s any help you need—oh, let me.” He reaches out and pulls up Edward’s lip, revealing his teeth. This is exactly what Edward dreaded, to be looked at, measured like a specimen—he does not like occult naturalists, they always made him uneasy; the term brings to mind taxidermy and being examined, put on a podium as detached students look on—but there is something unexpectedly gentle in Goodsir’s eyes behind his gold-rimmed spectacles, his touch respectful when he retrieves his hand. “You might experience some toothache as the fangs settle. I suggest keeping the belt, or have something else to chew on. If you wish, I can look at it once I’m back from the Arctic.” 

“Are you taking the creature home, then?” Jopson asks. His face softens as Goodsir pats his pocket, knowing the token to be safe. 

“I’ll need to learn Inuktitut on the way,” he says. “They gave us the name of their shaman and his daughter, Silna. The Netsilik live in close-knit communities: they should be easy to find, if I ask around; it will be quite the adventure!” 

“When you go there,” Crozier says, solemn, “don’t take anything.”

“Might not be an easy promise to keep,” Fitzjames chimes in, “on a navy ship.” 

“Unless a certain Sir James is captaining,” Goodsir says to great effect. In the excited conversation that follows, Edward seeks Jopson’s gaze. In the bright light, his eyes are blue like a lagoon. Edward anchors there, sound, soothed. 

❦

Manson’s ferryboat awaits by the little pier, rocking on opaque waters. Jopson, Hodgson and Edward are the first little group to leave for the mainland: the others will follow later. Goodbyes were said, but not farewells; still, Jopson was much reluctant to release Crozier from his parting embrace. Edward sympathises with him: watching the two of them he started missing his family with an intensity he has not felt in years. He wonders what they might think of him now. 

He helps Jopson step into the rocking boat. He wears his velvet cape again, and the wide-brimmed black hat. He looks like the man he met three days ago in a carriage, but both of them are altered completely. Edward glances back at Arbor Pale Hall: hulking, tall, soaking up the wintry sunlight. It seems less imposing, but none less lonely. Some homes are built for solitude, he supposes. 

“Is it over?” Manson asks timidly. 

“It’s over.” Edward tears his gaze away from the house and steps into the boat. His amber eyes are not remarked upon: perhaps they are only noteworthy for those who know what they are looking for. 

“Well, I say,” Hodgson announces, “our job is finished here.” He waves at the house gayly, and takes his place perched atop their luggage. 

Edward furrows his brows. “You didn’t do much,” he notes as Manson begins to row the boat. 

“Precisely,” Hodgson says. “I maintained an air of calm normalcy.” 

Jopson disguises a laugh as a polite cough. 

They slide through the sea, back to the sceptred isle of England, back home. Edward’s heart is heavy with loss. Arbor Pale Hall ebbs from his sight slowly; all that happened there will fade into a story. Was there really a trickster of a warlock there, and a stolen token from a far-away land? Did a ghost, betrayed by love, play a sonata? The dead buried there, the dead they carry: what did they see beyond the veil? He is returning from Erebus; but he is not alone. 

Jopson holds his hand as they say goodbye to Hodgson at the port. Edward will miss him; but doubtlessly, their paths will cross again, and Hogdson will remain delightfully insufferable. He is not sure when that may be; if he might return to the woods at all; if he shall continue his hunt. 

His thoughts are on the future as they step into the carriage: the future, this baffling and most terrifying beast. The shape of things to come are shadows on the wall; lines on his palm. Jopson takes his place across, smiling but exhausted. 

“Where to?” Edward asks as the carriage sets into jolting motion.

“Home, of course. Did I not promise to take care of you?” Jopson prods him with a toe, a habit he must have picked up from Edward. London, then; he dared not ask—but London, surely; a beating heart of a city, streets running like arteries, warm and bustling. Edward could take up its rhythm. Jopson’s heart and home are open for him: and so are his legs. Edward watches him spread them, takes himself in a leather-gloved hand. 

“I know I gave my word to kiss you,” Jopson says, “but the road is long: I might give you something more.” 

Edward leans back in the velvet chair. His ribs ache, but barely. He strokes his cock, exaggerating the motion, making sure Jopson’s gaze follows. 

“The first to come,” he proposes, “gets the first kiss.” 

Jopson laughs, happily scandalized. As his hand slides further down, the silver ring glints. Oh, Edward is ready to marry him any day.

It will be a moonlit ceremony.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Content warnings** : monster fucker Thomas Jopson makes some werewolf jokes while flirting | werewolf dick makes appearance | rough sex (biting, scratching, size kink, fast penetration, intense pace, knotting - everybody enjoys it) | broken bones treated poorly (Victorians wrapped broken ribs, you shouldn’t) | heavily implied cannibalism | Edward has an anxiety attack  
>  **Horror spoilers** : ~~reanimated corpse, body horror related to said reanimated corpse (it looks gross), beheading, intense possession scene~~
> 
> Gore is quoting a madrigal by Orlando Gibbons, composer of _The Silver Swan_
> 
> Thank you all for reading, and special thanks to @[ktula](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ktula), my beta, cheerleader and author extraordinaire!💖
> 
> Please consider a [reblog](https://longstoryshortikilledhim.tumblr.com/post/623267525519622144/cold-sweat-33-a-terror-monster-hunter-fic-e) / [retweet](https://twitter.com/forautumniam/status/1281607155351773184) and give an author her wings 👼 Plain text version [here!](https://longstoryshortikilledhim.tumblr.com/post/623268357524865025/cold-sweat-forautumniam-the-terror-tv)
> 
> Now with gorgeous **fanarts** by @amatlapal on [tumblr](https://amatlapal.tumblr.com/post/635817222854574080/sketches-based-on-longstoryshortikilledhim-s) / [twitter](https://twitter.com/amatlapal/status/1331806690212196352) _and_ @finchisalie on [tumblr](https://finchisalie.tumblr.com/post/637741289577873408/little-and-jopson-from-cold-sweat-by) 🖤


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